All in Nine Months
by RabbitRun
Summary: Pregnancy doesn't always mean baby showers and pink balloons. When fate assigns Natasha one of her hardest missions yet, she finds herself faced with nine months of morning sickness, raging hormones, and some of the toughest decisions she'll ever have to make. However, when she finds solace in someone unexpected, it's not just her body that starts to change. Formerly "Not my Fault
1. Chapter 1

Hello, everybody! I've noticed a lot of different "Natasha getting pregnant" stories, but I wanted to do a different take on it. This is just one scenario—please don't get upset or try to start a debate. This doesn't necessarily reflect my opinion, nor am I trying to represent one side more than the other. If it makes you uncomfortable, I won't be offended if you stop reading it (not that I'll even know!) Feedback is always appreciated, but please don't use the comments for arguing. I don't mean to stir up any negative emotions. I hope you enjoy it! Implied/subtle Clintasha?

"I need an abortion."

Bruce's hands froze over the blinking set of exposed wires. When Natasha had stumbled into his lab, eyes glued to the floor and mumbling disjointed apologies over the whirring machinery, he had known something was wrong. He was not expecting this.

Pushing his rolling office chair from the counter, Bruce removed his glasses and placed them on an end table to his right. Taking off his glasses was Bruce's quirky way of feeling more human, of making the transition from genius scientist to everyday man, from teammate to friend. Tony always joked that when the glasses came off, "therapist mode" went on. And it certainly seemed like Natasha could use a therapist right now.

Clearing his throat, Bruce motioned towards a vacant seat stationed at another lab table. When the team moved in, Stark had made it painfully clear that it was the designated "Tony chair," but Bruce was pretty sure he could make an exception. If not, a threat from the Big Green Rage Monster would probably shut his ramblings up.

When Natasha didn't move, Bruce leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair, never taking his eyes off the huddled agent. "Natasha, this is...this is big. What...when...how did this happen?"

"You really want to know how?"

"Come on, Romanoff. You know what I mean."

Natasha's expression hardened. "I don't think that's any of your business."

"It is when you walk into my lab in the middle of the night and ask me to give you an abortion," Bruce snapped. Natasha flinched a bit at that—although she made obvious efforts to hide it—so the offending man softened his tone. "Natasha, honey, I'm not judging—believe me, I've done enough in my life to know what it feels like to be judged. You just can't expect to spring this on me and not get a few questions. Is it Clint's?"

Natasha said nothing, but shook her head ever so slightly. Bruce could tell the question upset her.

"So it's another man's?"

The redhead's breath hitched. "Kind of...I mean, yes, obviously, but it's not like that."

Bruce raised his eyebrows expectantly and motioned for her to continue.

"You know that solo mission in Cambodia Fury sent me on a few months ago?"

Bruce nodded. The details were hazy, but he remembered it. After her return, Natasha had refused to speak to anyone for days.

"Well, I was ordered to get information from this arms dealer...but he wouldn't cooperate, so I had to sleep with him. I wasn't happy with it, but you do what you have to, right?"

Bruce didn't answer; instead, he stared at her dumbly, trying to process the slew of information that had just been thrown at him. He had always figured that life as a female assassin must involve a great deal of batted eyelashes and tight dresses—the best way to some men's hearts was through their pants—but it had always been kind of a hypothetical situation, something that probably happened but had never really existed as a reality. But now, here he sat, faced not only with living proof of all his former suspicions, but with the decision of what to do with her, as well.

"So what do you say?"

Bruce snapped out of his reverie; he had gotten so lost in thought that he forgot why Natasha was telling him all this in the first place.

"Does anyone else know?"

"No. You're the only one, Doc."

"Don't you think you should talk to someone else before you make a decision like this? Get their input? What about Clint?"

Natasha shook her head furiously, red curls whipping across her face. "No. No, not Clint. We've dealt with this kind of thing before and it...got messy, so to speak. It's not something I can explain right now; it's complicated."

"So you've had this...procedure...before?"

The assassin looked back down at her feet. "This would be my fifth."

Bruce's jaw fell so fast that he was surprised it didn't snap in half. "You're _fifth_ abortion! Jesus Christ, Natasha, do you have any idea what you're doing to yourself? It's a miracle you can still manage to get pregnant at all!"

"Well, that would make things a hell of a lot easier, wouldn't it?" Natasha snapped. A mixture of fury, regret, and longing shown in her eyes, and her bottom lip had developed a noticeable tremor. "And don't you _dare_ talk to me like that. What I do with my body is my choice, and if I had known that all I was gonna get from you was a shit ton of judgment, I would have just gone to my normal guy."

"Your 'normal guy?' Do you have any idea how you sound, Natasha? This isn't just some person you go to to get your hair done, this is...this is huge." Bruce paused, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. _Snap out of it, Banner,_ he thought. _You don't want the Other Guy to just do it for her. _

"I know, okay? You know what? Fine. Go ahead and judge. Be like the rest. Forget I said anything," Natasha spat, her face becoming an unreadable shell as she spun on her heels to storm out of the chamber. Before she could reach the door, however, Bruce had glided across the room with a grace so unlike that of his alter ego, and Natasha suddenly felt the soft weight of a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Natasha, please. I'm not judging; I'm sorry if I was getting worked up back there. I just want to talk, okay? You shouldn't bottle something like this up inside."

The irony of the words was not lost on Natasha, but she didn't smile. Instead, she let herself be gently guided by the back of the neck to the chair Bruce had been sitting in moments ago. Draping a spare blanket around her shoulders—Bruce often slept in the lab when he felt like he was "on a roll," so to speak—Bruce hooked a foot around the leg of the designated "Tony chair" and dragged it so that he sat face to face with the trembling spy. Pulling the blanket so that it wrapped more tightly around her body, Natasha let out a weak laugh.

"You sure Stark's not gonna kill you for using that thing?"

Bruce chuckled softly. "Stark? A blow to his ego would do him some good."

For a few seconds, the only thing that could be heard was the methodic ticking of the clock on the wall.

"It's not my fault," Natasha blurted suddenly.

"No one ever said it was." Bruce's response was quick and firm, a stark contrast to the shaky insecurity in Natasha's voice.

"Yes they did! You should see the way they look at me, the others at SHIELD, like I'm some sort of wild ball of feminine hormones who can't control herself. But it's not my fault, I...it's my job. It's not like I wanted it to happen. I was just doing what I had to do, right?"

Natasha's eyes once again met Bruce's, desperately searching for the sort of outside reassurance that can help ease your deepest self-doubts, if only for a moment. Bruce just shook his head.

"I can't answer that for you, Natasha. That's something you have to figure out."

"I try!" Natasha cried. Her eyes were now brimming with tears, and it was clear that she was trying her best to blink them back. "But whenever I come to terms with it, something goes wrong again, and I...I know what they say about me. 'You're an assassin,' they think. 'Of course every life is expendable to you.' They think I'm heartless, that I have no soul but...they don't know what it's like. I thought they'd understand, but they don't."

There was something in Natasha's eyes that Bruce had never seen before; she had always prided herself in keeping calm in the most dire situations, of never letting her emotions get the best of her, but he could tell it was taking its effect on her. And now, here she was, sitting in front of him in the middle of the night and expecting him to have all the answers. He had been through a lot in his life, but this...this was something he couldn't possibly begin to understand. But he had to try; he had never seen Natasha this desperate, this...spent.

"Have you considered the other options? Tubal ligation, maybe?"

Natasha snorted. "Of course I have. I've even made appointments to get it done. But every time I get into the doctors' office, I see all these women, these happy older women who already have lives and families and they're, I don't know, complete. Like they're ready to close off that part of their lives for good. But I'm not; I'm so young, there's still so much I have to do. And sometimes I feel like that's the only natural part of me anymore, the only part that works right, and if I were to break it myself, I would...I don't know. It's complicated."

"Okay, so it's not children themselves you have a problem with. What's stopped you from going through with any of the pregnancies before? I'm sure SHIELD has a pretty decent maternity program."

Natasha's shoulders drooped, and strings of scarlet hair fell so that they masked her face.

"It doesn't work like that, Bruce, at least not in cases like these. I never wanted to sleep with these men...hell, in some cases, I had no choice at all. I can't do that—carry around a child inside of me created by lust and deception and anger. I know I don't seem like the mushy type, but I think that...I don't know, life should be created by love, you know? Two people who are happy and committed to taking responsibility for it. And then what would happen when it was born? God knows I couldn't keep it—there's no way I could be a mother, at least not right now—and I don't know if I could trust anybody enough to take care of it. I've seen what some people do to children, and even though I know there are a lot of perfectly adequate families out there...I just couldn't do it. And what if one of my enemies found out about it? Another innocent life would be destroyed, a life that I created. And it would be my fault."

The blanket had slipped from Natasha's shoulders onto the ground, but she didn't seem to notice; she was lost in a world of what-ifs and regrets. Scooting closer, Bruce looped an arm around her.

"And do you know what it would be like, Bruce? Carrying around a constantly growing and obvious reminder of one of the most horrible events in your life?" Natasha's voice was eerily quiet now, almost at a whisper. "Do you know what it would be like to never be able to escape the mistakes you made?"

"Of course I know, Natasha. Every day I have to live with what I've created, and every day I'm reminded of what could have been if things had gone differently. And it sucks, I'll give you that. Tasha, honey, I'm not trying to talk you out of anything. Your body is your own, and I can't imagine what life for a woman in your situation must be like. I'm just trying to tell you that you're not trapped. You shouldn't have to go through this alone; there's a lot of people who care about you and would be more than happy to help you cope. I know you said you don't trust 'people,' but we're not 'people'—we're your friends, we want to see you happy. Just...don't be so quick to jump to a conclusion this potentially life-changing, you know? And besides, I'm a gamma radiation scientist; the only medical work I've ever done is first-aid patch-up kind of stuff—I wouldn't know the first thing about this kind of surgery."

"I know, I guess, it's just that...I don't know, I trusted you more than any other scientist I've met. God, I feel so stupid."

Bruce pulled her closer to him. "No, Natasha, you're not stupid. You are probably as far from stupid as someone could get. Tell you what, why don't you get a good night's sleep, think it over a little bit? If you wake up in the morning and are still set on your decision, I'll give you the number of a guy I went to college with—apparently he's the best at what he does. I won't tell anyone, and I won't judge you. It'll be our secret."

Natasha nodded slowly. Sniffing slightly, she wiped at the drying tears with her palms. "Okay. Sorry I bothered you. I promise I'm not normally this much of a mess."

"Shh, don't apologize—you did nothing wrong. You're doing great, Natasha; you're one of the strongest, most incredible people I've ever met. Just hang in there, okay? I don't want to see something happen to you that's gonna end up hurting you in the long run. Now get some sleep—you look exhausted. We can talk in the morning."

"That sounds like a good idea." Natasha stood, picking up the blanket and clutching it to her chest. "Do you want this back?"

Bruce shook his head. "No, keep it. It's hot in here anyway."

Natasha gave a grateful nod and turned to walk away. Bruce picked up his glasses and blew on some dust that had settled on the rims.

"Oh, and Bruce?" Natasha said hesitantly. Bruce paused and glanced back at the petite woman.

"Thank you. A lot."

"Any time, Natasha. Now go sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

Five minutes later, Natasha was lying on her room's queen-sized bed, huddled under the blanket that smelled faintly of sanitizer and cologne.

She didn't know what her future held, but whatever it was, she would face it in the morning.

I'll leave it up to you to decide what happens. If it gets enough reviews, I might make a second chapter with my take on her decision, but we'll see—I'll probably just leave it as a one-shot. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"_You're _what?_"_

_Natasha raised an eyebrow; for all the years she had known Clint, she would never have guessed his voice could get so high._

"_Pregnant. You know, knocked up, on the nest, bun in the oven..."_

_Clint continued to stare at her with bulging eyes._

"_I'm sorry, have you never been explained how babies are made before?"_

"_I...but...you...how do...you need a man!"_

"_Good work, detective Kinsey. Outsmarting Health Education teachers around the world."_

"_Quit sassing...I'm gonna...who?" Clint sputtered. Natasha was starting to think he was short-circuiting. _

"_I'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that that's Clint language for 'Who's the father.' Don't worry about it, it's no one you know."_

_The Russian swore she saw a few sparks erupt out of Clint's ears. _

"_NO ONE I KNOW? So you've been...behind my back..."_

"_Behind your back? What are we, a married couple? First of all, last time I checked, I didn't need to bring you a permission slip whenever I wanted to have sex with someone. And second of all, it wasn't 'behind your back'—it was during that Shang-Hai mission we went on last month, remember? That night when you stayed at the safe house and I went to the Commissioner's ball?"_

"_So wait..." Clint was starting to recollect himself. "While I was watching _Forrest Gump _alone on Netflix, you were banging someone?"_

"_Well, yeah. Where did you think I was all night?"_

"_I don't know...talking?"_

"_I'm a female assassin, Clint. I don't 'talk.'"_

"_Hmmm..." Clint put a fist to his chin; the poor man was making a visible effort to piece all of the information together. "Then this was with Shao-ming? The trafficker?"_

"_The one and only," Natasha confirmed._

"_So...it'll be an Asian baby."_

"_Oh my God, and he's a geneticist. Hold the phones, everyone, we have a second Darwin here."_

_Apparently Clint did not hear—or chose to ignore—the jab, because an enlightened smile grew on his face._

"_No, no, that's cool...I've always wanted to raise a bi-racial baby. They're all so pretty. Do you think it'll be good at archery?"_

_Natasha's breath hitched. "Hold up there, Brad Pitt— raise? Who said anything about raise?"_

"_What?" Clint's smile froze on his face. "You're not keeping it?"_

"_Keeping it? Clint, I'm not even gonna go through with the pregnancy. I've got an appointment at the clinic in two hours." _

"_The clinic..." Clint said slowly. "The clinic. Like the abortion clinic. You're gonna flush it out."_

_Natasha shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I'd prefer not to use that term, but yes, that was the plan of action...I'm sorry, is there a problem?"_

_Any trace of the light-hearted Clint Barton was gone, replaced with steely-gray eyes that bore into her with a look that would be enough to make Nick Fury wet his pants. She glanced down at her feet, a bead of sweat trickling down her neck. Never in her life had a single look made her feel so incredibly guilty, so incredibly...dirty. But why? She hadn't done anything wrong, had she?_

"_Is there a problem? You're about to destroy a perfectly innocent kid because you don't want to play 'mommy.' That's a pretty big fucking problem, Nat." _

"_Well, I think that's debatable..." Natasha awkwardly rubbed the back of her neck; God, why was she so sweaty? "And it's not that I 'don't want to play mommy,' or whatever you say; there's a lot more that goes into it than that. Plus, do you honestly see me as the '_I Love Lucy'_ housewife type?"_

"_That doesn't matter." Clint was standing now; a thick blue vein bulged in his forehead. "What matters is that you can't take responsibility for your actions. You made the decision, you carry it to the end. It's not this child's fault that you freak out at any command for commitment and don't have the balls to actually own up to whatever you did. You think you're so tough, but you're nothing but a coward, Romanoff. " _

_That did it. In one graceful swoop, Natasha slapped her partner across the cheek with a resounding THWACK. _

"_How. Dare. You," Natasha spat, enunciating every word with a vindictive hiss. "How dare you denounce me like that? You have no right to treat me with that kind of disrespect. You want to be in my position? You want to know what it's like to have to deal with this kind of shit? Fine. I'd trade places with you any day. You know what, Barton? Believe what you want to believe—I honestly don't give a damn. But around me, you'd better keep it to yourself, because I don't deserve to be talked to like that."_

_The last thing Natasha saw as she fled the room was a confused-looking Clint Barton forlornly cupping his reddening cheek._

"LADY ROMANOFF! LADY ROMANOFF!"

A series of booming thuds and a slight shaking of the floor woke Natasha from her restless sleep. Grimacing at the unwelcome sunlight peeking through her curtains, she clutched at the blankets and pulled them over her head; for someone who came from one of the most advanced races in the universe, Thor sure had a lot of trouble understanding the concept of "indoor voices."

'_Maybe if I ignore him he'll just go away...' _Natasha thought.

"LADY ROMANOFF!"

No such luck.

Throwing her muscular legs over the side of the bed, Natasha padded groggily to the door and leaned against the wall.

"What do you want, Thor? I'm trying to sleep."

"Sleep is for the weak!" Thor boomed from the other side. "The Captain and I have recently discovered a wonderful food establishment which you call 'McDonald's.' Would you care to join us for a meal between friends?"

Natasha grimaced; the thought of watching two genetically-enhanced men gorge themselves with as much sub-par fast food as possible made her stomach churn.

"No thanks, Thor. Not a fan."

There was a momentary pause. "But, Lady Romanoff, they place three patties of compressed beef underneath pieces of pig meat which have been boiled in grease and manufactured into fat-laden strips! I do not understand what is disagreeable in this glorious combination of Earthly foods. They even—"

"Thor! Please! Just stop." If Natasha hadn't felt like vomiting before, she was certainly on the verge of it now. "Listen, I'll catch up with you later, okay? I had a long night last night and I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh. I apologize, Miss Romanoff. My wishes for your well-being."

Natasha listened to the heavy footsteps retreating down the hall. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wooden frame. Thor was a lot to take at seven in the morning, but at least he didn't ask questions.

Deciding that trying to go back to sleep would probably prove useless, the assassin trudged over to the wide plexi-glass window and looked out over the impressive New York skyline.

Even Natasha couldn't deny that the mid-October day was shaping up to be a beautiful one. Sunlight shone softly on the pavement, a light breeze ruffled the trees' yellowing leaves, and not a cloud could be seen in the sky. She had her first day off of any training whatsoever in two months, and her allergies were finally starting to clear up.

So why did she have that uneasy feeling at the pit of her stomach?

Oh, yeah. She was pregnant.

Groaning, she ran a hand through her sleep-ridden hair. When Bruce had told her they would "talk about it in the morning," she hadn't been counting on the morning actually coming. But here it was, in all of its sunshine-y, foreboding glory, and, whether she liked it or not, decisions had to be made. Decisions that would require thought, possibly the most dismal pro-con list ever written, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

Five minutes later, Natasha was perched at Stark's sizable dining room table, sipping at a steaming cup of liquid JARVIS had just prepared. Her other hand tapped on the laminated oak top anxiously.

One thing was for certain—she wasn't keeping it. Natasha Romanoff could be called many things, but motherly was not one of them; she wasn't about to give some innocent kid a psychiatric disorder because she couldn't cook a casserole or drive it to soccer practice.

The mental image of Natasha in high-wasted pants driving a minivan suddenly flashed through the woman's mind, making her shudder and choke on her drink. No, keeping it was definitely out.

So that left two options: one, go through with plan A and get rid of the damn thing altogether, or two, find some poor sucker of a family to stick it with.

Deep down, Natasha's instincts were screaming for her to get the abortion and forget that this nightmare ever happened. She trusted that Bruce would keep it a secret, so it wasn't like she would have to worry about anyone else—namely Clint—holding it over her head. Plus, it would keep her from undergoing nine months of cravings, morning sickness, puffy ankles, and unwanted baby showers planned by a snarky Tony (she couldn't even begin to imagine the puns he undoubtedly had stored up for such an occasion,) an overexcited Thor, a brooding Clint, and a naive Captain Rogers who probably wasn't even aware of the term "premarital sex."

Best of all, though, she wouldn't have to confront the judgment that came with a bulging stomach and no diamond ring on the left hand. Natasha could confidently handle the faces of hundreds of men who wanted to drive a machete through her body, but if there was one thing that made her crumble inside, it was the condemning eye of someone who thought her to be a walking mistake. Plus, she was an assassin—her job was to remain invisible to the public eye. How was she supposed to do that when it felt as if everyone were constantly watching her?

But Bruce's words still rang through her head: she had friends, friends who would do their best to make sure that nothing bad happened to her or her child, before or after its birth. She supposed that, of all the pregnancy body guards to get stuck with, the Avengers were as good as it got; the team had enough resources and skills to eliminate some of the risks.

Some of the risks...but not all of them.

No matter how much research she or any supercomputer conducted, there was no way to be 100% sure that the adoptive family wasn't some group of crazies just trying to put up a front. Once she handed the little bundle of misery over, that was it—she was effectively rendering any control over its wellbeing or future. Plus, she had been a kid once. And it sucked. Granted, most children were not kidnapped by Soviets and brainwashed to become robotic killing machines, but still, why would she wish the excruciating pain of adolescence on anyone who had the opportunity to avoid it?

And, of course, sticking this maternal thing out would mean the inevitability of undergoing the painful and disturbingly unnatural phenomenon known as childbirth.

Natasha was unsure of how long she sat at that table, analyzing each detail of every possible variable that could affect her decision, but by the time she heard the characteristic _whoosh _of the dining area's sliding metal door, the sun was streaming full-force through the windows and the cream in her coffee had formed a thick, curdled layer.

"Howdy-ho, Romanoff."

Natasha looked wearily over her shoulder to meet the eyes of Tony Stark, who at present was carrying a grease-spotted paper bag bearing the trademark golden arches of the McDonald's logo.

"Wow, you look terrible."

"Not as terrible as you're going to look after eating all that junk. And I don't want to talk about it."

Tony blinked. "I wasn't gonna ask, actually. But now I'm curious. What was it, an all-night screamer with Barton? One cup too much of the party punch? Or no, let me guess—it's your time of the month. No, actually, don't answer that one; I don't want to know."

"Stark, if you don't shut up in two seconds, I'm going to personally take those fries and shove them somewhere where French fries don't belong," Natasha growled.

Tony raised his hands in mock defeat. "Whoa, comrade, calm down. You don't have to spill the beans if you don't want to."

Taking out his wallet, the billionaire lazily dumped a handful of extra change on the table and began to count it.

"I suppose you assassin-spy people run on secrets, right? Like without them do you just run out of gas and putter out? I guess that would explain why Fury's always wound up—he's got enough secrets to fuel the entire secret service. Right, Romanoff? Romanoff?"

But Natasha wasn't listening—instead, her eyes were focused on a shining copper penny that Tony held in his hand.

"Stark, would you mind doing something for me?"

"If I do, will you tell me why you look like you just came out of a three-minute cage match with Banner mid-transformation?"

"Maybe—it depends on how this turns out. Would you mind flipping that coin?"

Tony eyed the redhead suspiciously. "Flip a coin? That's it? No spy work or sneaking around or stealing Cap's underwear to see if they have stars and glitter on them?"

"What? No, of course not!"

"Really? No ulterior motives or plans to create a doomsday device or—"

"Stark, just flip the goddamn coin!"

"Sheesh, okay! You women, always so hormonal..." Tony muttered as he tossed the penny into the air. When it fell back down, he caught it and slapped it onto the back of his right hand.

The two stared at each other expectantly.

"Well...?" Natasha said after several seconds of silence.

"Aren't you gonna call it?"

"No! Just tell me what it is!" Natasha gave a sigh of frustration. Anthony Stark: making moods go from bad to worse since 1973.

"Fine! Heads."

"Oh," Natasha mumbled. She felt a small twinge in her chest, but she pushed it back.

"I'm sorry, was that not the answer you wanted? I can do it again if you—"

"No, Stark, that's okay, you've done enough for today. Do you know where Bruce is?"

Tony looked slightly taken aback at the question, but he pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "In the radiology lab, three floors down and second door on the left. Why, is my company not good enough?"

"No, I just need to talk to him. Sorry I kept you from your meal—feast away."

Hurriedly, Natasha pushed back her chair and practically ran out of the room, nearly knocking over at least three of Pepper Potts' very expensive Oriental decorations in the process. Once she got to the elevator, she leaned back against the mirrored interior and ran a hand over her face.

Heads. So she was aborting it.

_I can't believe you just decided the fate of this thing with a coin toss, Romanoff. This is a fetus, not a basketball game. Barton was right—you are a coward._

Natasha felt another pang of guilt, but she shoved it back just as quickly as she had done the first. Now was not the time to second-guess herself.

_What was I supposed to do? It was efficient. And it's not like I was actually getting anywhere the other way. _

_You think that's an excuse? Use your head, Natasha!_

_I was trying!_

By the time Natasha reached the lab, her brain was reeling with so many different thoughts and arguments that she was surprised she could even remember Tony's directions. Timidly, she knocked at the unmarked metal door, each rap echoing along the deserted hall.

"Come in." Bruce's voice was pleasant but distracted; she hoped he hadn't changed his mind since last night.

With some effort, Natasha turned the handle and pushed her way through the entrance. At the other end of the room, Bruce fiddled with a set of test tubes containing a glowing blue liquid; upon hearing her enter, however, he looked up and removed his glasses.

"Natasha," he said softly. "Good to see you. Did you sleep well?"

"Well...not really," she admitted. Keeping her eyes glued to her feet, Natasha wrung her hands and shifted back and forth nervously. She felt like throwing up.

"I'm sorry to hear that, hon. Did you make any decisions regarding what we talked about last night?"

The agent said nothing, but nodded rapidly.

"And?"

Natasha gulped and licked her lips. God, why was this so hard to do?

"Tasha, remember, I'm not here to judge."

Raising her head, Natasha's eyes met those of the man sitting across from her. In all her life, she had never seen eyes like this—gentle, concerned, almost...father-like.

She had never had a father before.

Never breaking eye contact, Natasha took a deep, shuddering breath and prepared to speak. _Just say it, Romanoff, just spit it out..._

"Natasha...?"

"I'm going through with it."

So there you go—chapter 2! Please remember that I am NOT trying to "choose a side" or teach a lesson; I am trying to keep my opinions as inconspicuous as possible. The only reason I chose this particular path was because I felt that I could better continue a story with it. Once again, I do not mean to offend anyone, and please do not get upset! Reviews always make me happy! Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

First of all, I want to thank everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed (especially reviewed!) the story so far—it really makes my day when you do that, so thank you. Once again—and I cannot stress this enough—I don't want this to spark any arguments. Decisions I make are purely for the sake of the continuation of this story. If you have a different take on how you would have preferred things to go you are, of course, free to say so, but just trust me when I say that I know where this is going. It'll all work out in the end! Now on with the show!

Natasha blinked.

_Where the hell did that come from? _

Apparently Bruce was just as surprised, because one of the vials he was holding slipped through his fingers and tumbled to the floor, the liquid steaming a little as it made contact with the linoleum.

She hoped it wasn't toxic—that couldn't be good for the baby.

Natasha shook her head; what had even spurred that thought? Hadn't the point of her original decision been to avoid this doting maternity attitude anyway? If she didn't know any better, she'd say that the fall she took during her most recent sparring session with Clint had left more than just a bump on the head.

Bruce was the first to recollect himself.

"Okay, Natasha, that's...okay. So you're keeping it?"

"No." There she was again, that Other Natasha; she and Bruce should consider forming a club.

"Okay, so you're going to give it up for adoption, I take it?"

The woman simply stared blankly at the growing blue pool on the floor.

"That's kind of the only option left, Tash."

"No, I know. It's just...it has to be someone I can trust. Someone I know will take care of it. I don't want to give up nine precious months of being parasite-free just for someone to forget it in the bath tub. Or something. You know?" Natasha mentally slapped herself; she was rambling now, something she normally never did. But then again, she had given up trying to get control over what she was saying—might as well let the subconscious take the lead and see where she ended up.

The genius nodded slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger—another quirky Bruce trait that the team had managed to pick up on.

"Well, if it's trust you want, then why don't you ask one of us? What about Pepper and Tony? They've got a stable relationship going."

He realized the absurdity of his statement as soon as he said it.

"No. Oh, God, no. There is no way on Earth I would ever give my child to him to raise; one Stark is plenty enough. What else you got?"

"I think Steve would make a good father-figure..."

"...Who probably still recites the Boy Scout code every night and doesn't know how to use a microwave. Next."

"Umm...Thor?"

"Are you kidding? That baby's skull would be crushed ten minutes after I handed it over."

"Okay then...what about Clint?"

"No. Out of the question." Natasha bit her lip; the words had come out much harsher than she intended them to. "It's not that I don't think he'd make a good father, it's just that...we're together so often; I'd see it all the time, and...it'd be too painful, I guess. Like I might as well be raising it myself. Maybe one day, but...not now."

"Well, that's everyone on the team, Natasha. Unless you're counting Fury, although something tells me we don't want a mini-spy in a custom-made trench coat and eye patch running around."

Bruce cracked a smile, but Natasha did not return it—in fact, she didn't even appear to have heard the comment. Instead, her eyes were focused on the floor, and she nervously wrung at her hands.

"Natasha?"

"Well, actually, I was thinking that maybe you could take it? When you're not on the fritz and demolishing buildings, you're actually halfway normal.

Bruce flinched, looking slightly hurt. God, what the hell was wrong with her? Why did her attempts to sound tough always just make her seem like a world-class Russian bitch?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way. It's just...I like you. I'm not just a killing machine or a set of sexy curves in a tight suit. You see me as me, and, I don't know, nobody's ever really done that before. Besides Clint and maybe Coulson, at least. You're one of the only people I've ever trusted.

Natasha sucked in a deep gulp of air, realizing that she hadn't breathed during her entire monologue. Her heart sank a little bit when she saw Bruce bite his lip and turn away from her.

"I appreciate the offer, Natasha, but I don't think that would be a good idea. I can barely work with people, let alone children, and...it just wouldn't work; I'd only be putting it in danger. I'm sorry."

Natasha swore that she could feel her heart drop a little in her chest. Silently, she cursed herself—she had broken the number one rule formulated in early childhood: get your hopes up, and you might as well be inviting failure to supper. Still, though, sometimes hope was inevitable—it came whether you wanted it to or not.

Seeing the disappointment on her face, Bruce rose and strode over to her, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, Natasha, don't be upset—this has nothing to do with you. I just don't think I'm qualified enough to raise a child."

Natasha's expression did not change; she was clearly making an active effort not to meet his eyes.

"Tasha, please, try to be open to this. There are plenty of wonderful couples out there who are dying to have a family; we just have to find the right one. Things'll be fine—you'll see."

Not removing his hand from Natasha's delicate shoulder, Bruce glanced at the clock hanging on the wall.

"I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but we have to get to that team dinner thing, remember? I think Stark would kill us if we missed it."

_Damn, I knew I was forgetting something..._

Despite his unattached playboy reputation, Stark had the oddest soft-spot for family meals—they had them at least once every two weeks, if not more. Of course, once everyone arrived he acted like it was them who had dragged him there gagged and chained, but the rest of the team just played along with it. They figured it was because he hadn't really had the whole family-dinner experience as a child.

"Natasha?" Bruce repeated.

She shook her head; whatever had just happened, she'd have to process it all later—it could go on hold until after Stark's little team bonding dinner. "Yeah, I know. Let's just get this over with."

Natasha heard the faint _whoosh _of the door behind them as she and Bruce stepped into the elevator. Her stomach was doing flips, and although she knew that it was technically impossible, she could have sworn that the kid was holding some kind of tap dance showcase in her uterus. The last thing she felt like doing right now was eating.

"Bruce, do we have to go to this? Couldn't we just, you know, go cliff-diving or something?"

"As much as I agree with you, I have a feeling that we would spark a lot of questions from Stark and your quasi-boyfriend if we were both gone," Bruce chuckled. "Besides, Steve is cooking, and you know how sensitive he gets about his culinary abilities."

Natasha snorted. "Amen. The guy's like a 50's housewife."

Silence settled between them for a moment, filled only by the whirring of the elevator's gears.

"So, have you thought about when you're going to tell them?"

Natasha tensed; truthfully, she had been trying to avoid acknowledging the subject. She decided to play dumb. "Who?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow at her. "Your teammates."

"Oh." The redhead shifted uncomfortably. "I was thinking never?"

"Well, they're probably going to notice that something's amiss when your midsection's the size of a beach ball."

"Yeah, that thought had occurred to me..." Natasha's eyes lit up. "We could stage a kidnapping."

The corners of Bruce's lips twitched slightly. "Oh, yeah? And where would this 'kidnapping' take place?"

"I was thinking Cancun. Or the Bahamas. Preferably someplace with beach access."

"We'll see what I can do," Bruce chuckled as the doors slid open. "But seriously, Natasha, you're going to have to tell them at some point."

"Tell who what?"

The pair looked up to see a curious-looking Clint Barton standing at the elevator's entrance. Natasha groaned inwardly; of all the people to run into right now...

"That I'd rather attend a tea party with Nick Fury than go to this 'family lunch' thing."

The excuse was a lame one, but it was all Natasha had; she wasn't doing well at thinking on her feet today. Clint skeptically raised an eyebrow but evidently decided not to probe any further.

"What, Nat, you don't like Mama Roger's home cookin'? Last time he cooked breakfast you ate more than Thor."

"I'm surprised you could look up from shoving your face long enough to notice, beefcake." The trio had reached their designated floor and was now walking towards the tower's impressive dining room. Thor and Tony were already seated, both absorbed in their respective activities: Tony fiddled impatiently with a new phone model that looked more complicated than a cellular device should ever be while Thor repeatedly attempted to balance his spoon on his nose. When the demigod noticed them, a wide grin grew on his face; Tony simply grunted and jerked his head in their general direction.

"Friends! Welcome! Please join me in this new activity lady Jane has taught me—it is most amusing!"

"Yeah, well, it gets a lot less 'amusing' after watching you drop it on my girlfriend's very expensive table for fifteen minutes straight," Tony grumbled.

"Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed today," Bruce mused, taking a seat between Natasha and Clint. "Since when did you care about furniture quality so much? And where's Rogers?"

"You know, flitting about the kitchen like the housewife he is. And since Pepper made a threat involving a lemon juicer and a very precious part of my anatomy. You know how the woman gets about her art."

Several seconds of silence passed, and Natasha decided to make use of them and process what had just happened between her and Bruce.

Truthfully, she had kind of been banking on the whole "Bruce as a surrogate father" thing. He was mature enough, she reasoned, and while he wasn't the most stable being on Earth, he was certainly more reliable than anyone or anything else in her life had ever been (save Clint and the inedibility of the SHIELD cafeteria food.) Plus he talked all the time about the kids he helped in India; it was only logical that he'd jump at the chance to do it all again.

But he had refused, and now she was stuck facing the terrifying prospect of eight more months of pregnancy and finding an adequate adoptive family. And the Avengers...how was she going to tell them...

The harsh _clang_ of metal hitting Amish-crafted oak yanked her out of her reverie.

Tony slammed his fist down on the table. "Thor, if you drop that thing one more time, I swear to God I will take your hammer and shove it up your—"

"Lunch time!" Steve chimed. The team turned to see Captain America himself—apron and all—sauntering into the dining room with a steaming plate of meat loaf and mashed potatoes. Natasha groaned inwardly; if it got any more "Southern comfort" than that, she would have to vomit.

Speaking of which, why was she feeling so queasy all of a sudden?

"Well, you just saved us from a very awkward situation, Rogers. I gotta say, you have impeccable timing," Clint piped from his seat in the corner.

Steve looked confusedly at the two men standing opposite one another. Thor, forlornly holding his spoon tightly in his hand, simply shrugged his shoulders innocently.

"I don't want to know," Steve mumbled, moving around the table so he could dish out a portion of his creation onto each empty plate. Natasha's stomach gave a little lurch when the oozing piece of meat hit was plopped down in front of her; closing her eyes, she covered her mouth with her hand and gulped back a bit of bile rising in her throat. _Act normal, Natasha...just don't look at the food..._

"Are you okay, Nat?" Natasha quirked an eye open to find Clint staring at her with a concerned look.

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just...stomach cramps, I guess."

"HAH! I was right!" Tony exclaimed.

Sweat was starting to accumulate on Natasha's forehead. She needed to get out of there, and fast—she'd think of an excuse later.

"I'm sorry, guys, I have to leave."

"What? No, who says you get out of family lunch just because you have woman issues?"

"Stark, if she wants to leave, she should be able to."

"Can it, Capsicle, you just don't want another person to complain about your meatloaf."

"Um, guys—" Natasha choked weakly.

"No, I just don't want anyone to be uncomfortable." He paused. "And what's wrong with my meatloaf?"

"No offense, Cap, but there's just no physical way to make ground-up, mushed-together cow parts appetizing."

With that statement, Natasha vomited on the table.

A silence settled over the room as the team stared in shock at the mess spreading quickly over the laminated wooden top. Suddenly Steve looked up at Tony.

"You're cleaning that up."

So there's chapter 3! I have to say, it's actually a lot of fun to write this. The chemistry between all the characters was so enjoyable in the movie—I only hope I'm doing an okay job at keeping it there! I'm hoping to use this story to explore some of the relationships we didn't really get to see in the movie (hence the Bruce/Natasha centralization.) Reviews always appreciated—I love to hear what you guys think! I have a general plan for this story, but I'm always open to hearing what reviewers have to say. Some of the ideas are actually incredibly insightful!


	4. Chapter 4

Once again, thanks to everyone who's reviewed/favorited/followed the story! It means a lot to me! Your comments are so much fun to read.

"I cannot believe that I'm actually doing this right now."

To say that Tony was being dramatic about his current situation would be an understatement: after a short but one-sided argument with Steve (the rest of the team—save Natasha, who had quietly slunk out of the room after the incident—had been almost too eager to agree with the Star Spangled Man with a Plan,) the billionaire huffily stomped up to his room, only to come down dressed in full gear, including scrubs, a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, and a hospital mask.

Clint, who actually seemed rather nonplussed about the whole vomit-on-the-table thing, continued to wolf down his meatloaf and mashed potatoes combination with a ferocity akin to that of a bear stranded in the desert for a week.

"Quit complaining, Stark, you're acting like a two-year-old," Clint said between bites, spewing small bits of chewed-up food particles onto the floor.

"Yeah, well, I don't take maturity advice from someone who talks with their mouth full, Barton."

"Touché." Clint finished the last hunk of meat with an audible gulp and slid the plate to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Look at it this way, at least it's Natasha-vomit."

"Dude, that's the worst kind of vomit. It's assassin vomit. It's the kind of vomit whose fumes will worm their way into your bloodstream and kill you while you sleep."

"I don't know. Could be worse. Could be Rogers' puke."

Tony paused his work and grimaced. "Well, when you put it like that, I might as well be sitting in a puddle of chocolate pudding right now. Rogers' vomit would leave a permanent stain and nag you to death every time you came in the room. I bet it smells like barbeque and Uncle Sam."

"How much do you bet it's actually red, white, and blue?"

"Heh, I bet he spews glittery stars when he gets sick."

"Did you know he has trading cards?"

"No he doesn't."

"Yeah, man, Coulson collected them. He never showed you?"

"Who, _Phil_? Yeah, he didn't really have the time between finding ways to override my security system and getting on a first-name basis with my girlfriend."

"I'm sorry, who got on a first-name basis with me?"

Tony froze mid-wipe at the sound of the husky, matter-of-fact voice coming from none other than Pepper Potts herself. Frantically, he shifted his weight so that he hovered in an awkward push-up position over the half-cleaned slop.

"_Just act casual_," he hissed to Clint over the clicking of Pepper's heels.

"You know, just because your name is on this building doesn't mean that I don't get one, and...what are you hiding?"

"Hiding? What do you mean? I'm not hiding anything," Tony said, looking desperately over at the marksman seated in the corner. Clint just shrugged his shoulders and said, "You're on your own with this one, buddy."

"Tony..." Pepper said, her voice sounding dangerously threatening.

"Okay, fine! But I would just like to remind you that this was not my fault!" Hesitantly, Tony moved his body so that the half-cleaned puddle was now fully exposed; Pepper's eyes opened so wide that it was almost comical.

"I don't...how did this...I swear to God...I'm going to kill you, Tony!" Pepper sputtered; Clint swore he could use both hands to count the veins visible in her forehead.

"I'm cleaning it," Tony mumbled lamely, his eyes turned towards the ground in an uncharacteristic display of insecurity.

"That's NOT the point!" Pepper spat. "I have had that table for fifteen years, Stark—_fifteen years _—and I lend it to you for two hours and you manage to get puke all over it. '_Come on, Pepper,' _you said, '_just let me use it for this one team meal! I swear I'll be careful with it!' _So I said, you know what, he loves these little dinners so much, why don't I give it to him this time? Never mind that he's never cared about my art before, he's been so much more mature these last few months. Now I'm going to have to call my table stain guy to come all the way from Brooklyn to fix your mess."

"You have a table stain guy? Where can I get one?" Clint chuckled. One glare from Pepper effectively erased any trace of a grin on his face.

"Seriously, Tony, do you have any idea what you did?"

"It's a _table,_ Pepper! It's made to keep stuff off the floor!"

"It's _Amish, _Tony! It's not made to keep your vomit out of the toilet!"

"It's not _my_ vomit—it's Natasha's!"

Pepper's expression quickly deadpanned.

"Natasha's? Is she all right?"

"Oh, so when it's my vomit it's all fine and dandy, but when it's Natasha's it's time to call the paramedics."

Ignoring her boyfriend, Pepper turned to the silent archer who was doing his best to blend into the wall. "Clinton?"

Clint shifted nervously; he hated when people used his full name. "Nat's got really bad digestive problems, actually. Sometimes it all just builds up and explodes. She gets kind of embarrassed about it; I usually wait a few hours to check on her."

The redhead's mouth twisted into a frown that seemed both disgusted and sympathetic. "Poor thing." She glanced once more at the hardening glop and shook her head. "Well, I'm going to call my table guy."

Tony's eyes lit up and he opened his mouth to speak. Pepper placed her index finger over his lips.

"Keep cleaning, Stark."

With a dissatisfied grumble, Tony fell back to his knees and began to scrub at a particularly stubborn stain; smirking, Clint flicked his wrist and made a whipping sound out of the side of his mouth.

"You know, Barton, I'm sure Tony would like a helper. You look like you've gone a round or two with the mop bucket in your days."

Clint's expression turned serious. "No, thanks, Miss Potts. I actually have to go somewhere; busy schedule, you know how it is."

Before Pepper could form a retort, the archer had practically sprinted out of the room, leaving Tony as the sole target of the woman's anger.

Sighing, Pepper collapsed onto a loveseat sitting in the corner of the room.

"Finally," she grumbled, letting her head fall back and hit the wall with a painful-sounding _thump_. "I have been looking for a moment of peace for too goddamn long."

"Shh! Don't say that! It's always when it's the quietest that he—"

"FRIENDS!"

"—finds you," Tony finished.

Thor made his way to the loveseat occupied by Pepper and squeezed in next to her, holding a plate piled high with meat, potatoes, and an assortment of other foods he had found while he was away. Smiling amiably at Pepper—whose face was a mere two inches away from his—he began to eat. Along with the whole "indoor voice" issue, Thor was also having a little trouble understanding personal space.

"Hello, Miss Potts. I have come to enjoy my meal with some company. Would you like a Poptart?"

Tony dropped his rag. "I'm sorry, am I the only one who's just a little grossed out at this _vomit on the table _thing?"

"Oh, I am," Pepper said.

Thor just continued to smile and squeeze inhuman amounts of ketchup onto his meat. "Indeed. I feel for Miss Romanoff; the first months of pregnancy are always the most difficult."

It was as if something had pressed the _freeze _button on an invisible remote. Tony stared at Thor, his gaping mouth evident even under his mask, while Pepper's head snapped up so quickly that bones could be heard popping.

"Hold up there, Muscles—pregnancy? As in with a kid?"

"Yes. That is the process on Earth, is it not?"

"Well, yeah, with normal people, but not Romanoff! She's barely even human—she uses, like, mitosis to reproduce!"

Before Thor could let loose a string of questions, Pepper intervened.

"Thor, don't listen to him. Now, did Natasha _tell _you this?"

"No, she did not have to." The demigod looked between the other two flabbergasted faces with a confused expression. "Is it not obvious to you?"

"No!" The couple chorused.

"Hm. Then perhaps you should study with midwives." Thor shrugged nonchalantly and continued to shovel down his dinner. The genius and his girlfriend exchanged glances.

"Thor...are you sure? I mean, absolutely sure? Like not 'just a hunch' sure?" Pepper asked, turning awkwardly to meet his eyes.

"You people are amused at the most interesting things! Yes, I am sure; I have a good friend and mentor on Asgard who studies gestation. I have not made a wrong assumption since the age of fourteen."

Tony and Pepper continued to stare at one another.

"JARVIS, do a full scan on Natasha Romanoff. I want the results ASAP."

Sitting with his back against the wall, Tony shook his head in wonderment. "I could have sworn she used mitosis."

00000000

Natasha Romanoff lay face-down on her bed, head buried in the crooks of her arms. Her legs, now covered by a pair of yoga pants (the closest thing she had to sweats) were splayed apart, each bare foot touching an opposite end of the twin bed. Breathing deeply in an attempt to overcome some of the lingering nausea, she squeezed her eyes shut; maybe if she kept them closed long enough she would just disappear.

Natasha was not one to care much about what people thought of her; she was who she was, and if people had a problem with it, then they didn't have to talk to her. Plus there were so many opinions surrounding the infamous Black Widow and her alter ego that she didn't even bother to keep track of all of them.

She did, however, take her pride very seriously. Russians in general were a very proud people, and although Natasha had done her best to shed all remaining connections and associated stereotypes to her mother country, she could not help but hate that shame-induced burning feeling that started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way up to her face. God, she was so embarrassed—why didn't she slip casually out of the room when nobody was looking? Instead she just sat there and stuttered .while the "big men" argued if she was allowed to leave or not. Since when did she care what they thought? And then, as if that wasn't humiliating enough, she managed to lose her lunch in front of her entire cast of teammates—teammates who probably still labored under the impression that she lived on nothing but vodka, coffee, and the still-beating hearts of her victims. At least her secret was still in-tact—Clint had probably explained to them about her digestive issues and blamed the whole thing on that.

She groaned. Maybe she'd rather that they know she was pregnant. Tummy problems were not exactly the most fear-inducing characteristic for an assassin.

A timid knock echoed from the door.

"Natasha?"

The agent released a breath she didn't know she was holding. It was just Steve. She felt a little guilty for thinking it, but Steve was probably the only person she could deal with right now—his lack of questioning and inherent gullibility just made him so much easier to lie to.

"Yeah?"

"Can I come in?"

Sighing, Natasha rolled over and punched a set of numbers on the keypad installed in her nightstand. The door whooshed open to reveal an awkward Steve Rogers tapping his foot in an attempt to look at-ease. Upon looking at her, he quickly turned his head away and shaded the side of his face with his hand.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were indecent."

Looking down at her body confusedly, she noted her legwear and resisted the urge to roll her eyes—to Captain, the idea of women walking around freely in skin-tight pants was still a little hard to grasp.

"It's fine. Did you want something?"

"I just wanted to know if you were feeling better," he responded, keeping his eyes locked on the ceiling.

"I would if you actually looked at me when you talked."

Reluctantly, Steve lowered his eyes to meet Natasha's and started to walk towards her. "Sorry, old habit," he said, an odd smile on his face. "Anyway, I wanted to apologize for what happened back there."

Natasha felt a mixture of anger and gratitude blossom in her stomach, but she pushed it down. "It's unnecessary. You didn't do anything."

"Yeah, but I kind of feel like it's partly my fault. It shouldn't be up to us to decide whether or not you get to leave the dinner table."

Steve's blue eyes were still locked with Natasha's green ones, making the feeling of gratitude grow a little bit more. The assassin just stared blankly at him.

"Well, anyway, my mother used to make this tea for me when I was sick—it's some kind of honey-rhubarb-mint mix. I know it sounds gross, but it's worked pretty much every time. It's been about ten years since I've had it but I think I remember the recipe okay. Weirdly enough, the only ingredient Pepper didn't have was honey so I had to substitute cinnamon. Is that all right?"

Natasha felt a lump forming in her throat. It was unfamiliar and foreign, and for a moment, she thought that she was going to get sick again. Then it hit her: she was about to cry.

Was she serious? She hadn't cried in over eight years and now she was turning on the waterworks because of a cup of tea some man with a spandex sweater and go-go boots made her?

Seeing her expression, Steve began to back away. "Is that not okay? I'm sorry, Natasha, I can make another one. You like coffee, right? Or no, you like hot water with lemons! I remember you said that once when everybody was arguing over where to go for breakfast one time."

That did it. Natasha burst into tears, her breath coming out in short, audible sobs. At the same time, her shoulders shook and large droplets of water ran down her face into her open mouth.

Steve was officially in full-panic mode. He had never been particularly able around dry-eyed women; crying ones practically made him break out in hives.

"Oh my gosh, Natasha, I don't know what I did, but, um...I'm sorry, and...do you...what can I do?" He was practically begging, making Natasha bawl even harder.

"No...Steve...it's just...that was so..._sweet_! I don't...even know...what to say!"

"Oh...then why are you sad...?" Steve cautiously took a step toward the blubbering Natasha, then decided it was probably best to stay where he was.

"NO! I'm._happy!_ You remembered I liked hot water with lemons! I didn't even know anyone was _listening _to me! I just..._thank you!_" She let out another strangled sob and buried her face in her hands.

"Well...it's actually just because you have kind of a loud voice and I was standing right next to you, but you're welcome, I guess..." Steve said, timidly leaning over to awkwardly pat Natasha on the shoulder. "But if you're happy, why are you crying...?"

"I'm crying _because _I'm happy, you idiot!" Natasha suddenly looked up at him with fiery eyes and angrily slapped his hand away. "And what the hell do you mean my voice is loud? You think that _you're _the picture of perfection? Is that it?"

Steve looked as if he were about to short-circuit. "Yes...I mean no...I mean...what?"

Suddenly, Natasha leapt off the bed as if to hug the floundering man standing in front of her but stopped, her arms raised awkwardly halfway in the air; she would not let her hormones get total control over her.

Realizing what she was trying to do, Steve took a hesitant step and motioned towards her. "No, it's okay, you can have a hug if you want."

After a pause, Natasha pressed herself against him and let his arms fold around her while she continued to whimper into his chest. She felt a strange calm wash over her; she normally hated hugs—they made her feel sappy and vulnerable, like she was surrendering any source of power—but the warmth of the Captain's strong arms encircling her mid-back—however awkwardly—was almost comforting. She had never had anyone hold her so innocently before.

"Is everything okay here?"

Even with her face buried in Steve's shirt, Natasha could recognize Bruce Banner's soft, slurred voice echoing from the doorway. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Captain frantically mouth "_Help!_"

With a start, she realized how much she must be scaring the poor guy. She felt another wave of embarrassment wash over her—only a little over a month of pregnancy and already this thing was turning her from a stone-cold assassin into a vomiting, blubbering, well..._girl_.

She turned her back to the two men in order to wipe away at some of the tears remaining on her face. She felt the familiar weight of a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay, Natasha?" Bruce whispered, his breath brushing the hairs on the back of her neck. Natasha just shrugged.

"I'm sorry, this may not be any of my business, but is something going on here?" Natasha could feel the Captain's curious stare boring into her back; Bruce didn't move from his position near her ear.

"Just tell him, Natasha. It'll be okay."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Natasha squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her fists together.

"I'mpregnan."

There was a pause.

"Pardon?"

"I'm pregnant."

Another pause.

"Like...with a baby?"

"Yes. Like with a baby."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Well, Bruce, obviously. And I suppose it's only so long until Stark goes snooping around and finds out. Just...don't tell Barton. Please."

"And you're doing okay?"

"I'm..." Natasha stopped. There it was again, that queasy feeling in her stomach surging on with a vengeance. "I'm going to be sick."

Leaping into action, she sprinted clumsily to the bathroom and slammed the door, the sound echoing off the walls of the room.

Faint sounds of retching could be heard as Bruce and Steve stood and stared uncomfortably at one another.

"So...just to be clear," Steve finally said, breaking the silence, "she, you know—_fondued_?"

There's Chapter 4! I have to say, this was a lot of fun to write; I hope I managed to keep all of their interactions in-character. Tell me what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

Hello, everybody! As usual, thanks to those of you who have favorited, reviewed, and followed—I cannot tell you how appreciative I am of it! I tried to include some actual romance in this chapter, but I have no clue how it turned out; that subject has never been my forte. Anyway, I found this article online that _kind of _related to my story. It kind of overanalyzes things, but, being who I am, I thought it was very interesting and at least made for a good read. 2012/05/08/avengers-sexual-violence/ . Anyway, on with the story.

"Well, I'll be damned. Romanoff's on the nest."

"I still think this is a little intrusive."

"Not as intrusive as Jackie Robinson's Jedi-mommy trick."

"Still, though, it's a major invasion of privacy. And Jedi's don't read minds, they control them."

"I'm a scientist, Potts; getting the facts is my job. And actually they do."

"Are we really going to get into this right now?"

"I don't know, only if you don't want to discuss the fact that there's currently a freaking _human being_ growing inside SHIELD's top assassin."

Biting her lip out of frustration, Pepper leaned forward and placed her chin on top of the billionaire's bare shoulder. Currently, the Stark Tower's resident couple was sitting in what had affectionately been deemed the "family room," though its white-washed walls, tile floor, and 82-inch flat screen TV made it look like something straight out of _Back to the Future_. Never taking his eyes off JARVIS' newly printed diagram, Tony mindlessly reached back and lightly scratched his girlfriend's cheek.

"I'm not a dog, Stark," Pepper said softly, though she turned so that her nose was buried in the crook of Tony's neck.

"Oh, really? I mean, I guess I can do this is you want..."

Twisting so that the two were face to face, Tony gently cupped the back of Pepper's head and interlocked his lips with hers. With a slight smile, Pepper placed both hands on his cheeks and let her body mold with his the best she could from her position behind the low-backed arm chair. The two stayed like that for several minutes until Tony pulled back with an exaggerated yelp.

"OW! You bit my lip!"

"No I didn't! That was all you!"

"No! You bit my lip, Potts! I think I'm bleeding! Here, do I need stitches?"

Tony pulled his bottom lip out and shoved his face closer to Pepper's, who responded with an amused snort and tried to shove him back. Tony, who by now had the routine practically memorized, pulled his girlfriend to his lap with a loud "GOTCHA!" In a surge of affection, Pepper threw her arms around the man sitting under her and brought him in for another kiss, this time deepening the intensity.

"Oh! Sorry! I'm leaving now!"

"Oh my God, Steve!" Before Tony could tell what was happening, Pepper had practically thrown herself from his knees and landed on the floor in a painful-looking position. With as much dignity as she could muster, she stood and attempted to discreetly wipe away some of the lipstick that had smeared across her face, a hot red blush rising in her cheeks. Tony craned his neck to scowl at Captain Rogers, who had a well-used board game and four Diet Cokes balanced in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Natasha and I were going to play some Parcheesi, and we were wondering if you two wanted to join, but...I can come back later!"

"No, no, Steve, it's okay. We were just, eh, talking."

Steve nodded and shifted uncomfortably.

"But, uh, we'd love to join your game! Wouldn't we, Tony?"

The aggravated Stark glared at Pepper, but the redhead's look was enough to make him cave quicker than Thor running for the last box of Poptarts. He turned back to Steve and grumbled something that could pass as an affirmative response.

"Swell." He glanced at the couple. "Do people not say that anymore?"

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Pepper cut him off. "No, it's fine, Steve. There are still plenty of people who use that word."

An uncomfortable silence grew between the two Avengers and their friend. Pepper cleared her throat.

"So, where's Natasha?"

"Oh, she'll be coming soon. She's—"

"Right here."

"Shit!"

In a clumsy attempt to shield JARVIS' body scan from the Russian's eyes, Tony flung himself across the chair so that he lay on his side with the crinkled paper wedged underneath his hip.

Natasha blinked. "I've seen that reaction a lot, but never from you, Stark. Why are you sitting like that?"

"Oh, you know, felt like stretching out the joints. Can't a man do some Pilates when he wants to?"

Natasha narrowed her eyes but decided to tackle the issue later; she didn't have the energy to argue right now. "Okay, whatever. Rogers, you ready to—"

"We know you're pregnant!" Pepper blurted.

The woman regretted it almost immediately: all semblance of color drained from the poor girl's face, and her eyes popped open so wide that Pepper was surprised they didn't fall right out of their sockets. She looked like she was about to faint.

After opening and closing her mouth a few times, Natasha spoke in a trembling voice. "But...I don't...how?" She said in an almost-whisper. Tony grimaced; you could practically touch the layer of panic in her tone.

Pepper looked at her boyfriend helplessly, clearly at a loss for words. Tony squeezed her hand and turned to face Natasha. "We—well, no, I—ordered JARVIS to do a body scan. Muscle Man made an...educated guess, so to speak, and I wanted to see if it was true." Natasha continued to stare at him in disbelief. Tony cleared his throat. "In retrospect, probably not one of my best ideas."

Natasha didn't make an effort to retort. "So, instead of asking me, like any _normal _person would do, you violated my rights and ordered a machine to probe me _behind my back_, all so you could prove some hypothesis. And on top of that, Thor knows. Is that correct?"

Nobody spoke; instead, they kept their eyes glued to the floor.

"I said, is that correct?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"That's all I need to hear. Save your explanations for someone who cares," Natasha spat, spinning on her heels towards the door in an attempt to keep the others from noticing her trembling lip. When she reached the exit, she turned back to Tony and gave him a glare that was enough to make even the cocky billionaire shrink back in his seat.

"I hope you found out what you needed to know."

"Natasha, wait!"

"Just don't tell Barton."

The _whoosh _of the door cut him off, leaving Steve to look at Natasha's former standing spot with his arm outstretched.

Running a hand through her hair, Pepper squeezed her eyes shut and groaned. "I told you we should have just asked."

0000000000

Her nose pointed to the ground, Natasha stormed through Stark Towers' dimly-lit halls with one goal in mind: get to room, shut door, and proceed to sleep for the next eighty years. Maybe by escaping into actual dreams, she would be able to get the hell out of this lifelike nightmare.

Of all the low-down, scummy things Stark could do...and with Pepper, of all people. She knew Tony could be a sleaze ball, but Pepper? In normal circumstances, Pepper was the morally corrective lens on Stark's conceited-tinted glasses; hell, she had even grown to _like _the woman—and she never bonded with anyone of the same sex!

Letting out a scream of frustration, Natasha whipped around to punch the steel wall as hard as she could and immediately felt a jolt of pain shoot from her knuckles to the middle of her forearm.

"Fuck," she muttered. Clutching her injured hand to her chest, Natasha rested her back against the wall and slid until she was sitting on the floor. Why was it so difficult for people to understand that it was _her own goddamn body? _When had it become acceptable to secretly probe into each and every painful detail of someone else's life and then tell them what to do about it? And now there was no going back on her decision—not without a lot of complicated and potentially awkward explanations.

Tenderly, Natasha placed her palm on the lower part of her stomach, looking at it as if it had wronged her.

"You'd better be worth it, kid," she murmured.

"Tasha? What's wrong?"

Shit. Apparently the day could get worse.

Trying her best to avoid Clint's eyes, Natasha sucked in a breath of air and put on her best poker face. What was she supposed to say to that? _"Oh, not much; I just found out that the entire team knows I'm pregnant, and now I'm trying to keep it a secret from you even though I know it's going to bite me in the ass in the end, but I just can't stand the thought of you judging me. On top of that, I've thrown up twice in the past twelve hours and am having more mood swings than Kim Kardashian on cocaine. But you know, just a typical day." _

"Natasha?"

"It's nothing, Clint."

Damn. She had meant to sound more confident than that; when did her voice start to shake so much?

Clint frowned. "Nat, you know no one's judging you, right?"

Natasha's eyes widened and her heart sped up in her chest. He knew...how did he know? How had everyone managed to find out? Was she that bad at keeping secrets?

"Wh—what? Who told you? Was it Banner?"

"Wait, Banner? What does he have to do with anything? I was there. I'm talking about dinner." Clint glanced at her in suspicion. "What are _you_ talking about?"

Natasha felt a sensation of relief wash over her body—he didn't know...he still didn't know...

She pulled her knees to her chest and covered her face with her uninjured hand. God, she was sick of this, this constant pressure to keep her mouth shut, to always watch what she was saying. If she was lucky, the stress would kill her before she even started to show; that would sure help solve a lot of her problems.

"Natasha, what happened to your hand?"

Natasha looked down at her limp fist, her mouth twisting into a grimace at the sight of it: the flesh of her fingers had become swollen and red, and droplets of blood oozed from small but relatively deep gashes on her knuckles.

"It's nothing," she said. She tried to open her fingers and wave them in front of her skeptical partner's face, but to no avail; the pressure sent a sharp jolt down her hand, causing her to pull it back into her chest.

"Shit, Tasha, what did you do?" Barton asked as he took a seat next to her. Gently, he took Natasha's hand in his and pulled it into his lap, cradling it so that the palm was facing up. She gave a hiss of pain but didn't resist.

"Had a boxing match with the wall," she answered honestly. She supposed she could at least give him that.

"Nat..." The marksman sighed and brought the fist to his mouth. Closing his eyes, he kissed each finger so lightly that his lips barely brushed the surface of her skin. "Nat, I know you're a secretive person, and I know that your business is your business, but...I can tell when you're hiding something—I can read you like a book. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but just so you know, I'm here whenever you want to talk. I feel like we've been drifting lately, and I don't know if it was because of something I did, but if it was...you would tell me, right? I mean, I love you—you can tell me anything. Okay?"

The look in Clint's eyes made Natasha's stomach lurch with guilt; she felt like throwing up, but this time it wasn't because of morning sickness. For such a sarcastic, independent guy, Clint could be so...gentle...sometimes. Insecure, almost. The man had always put on the sort of "assassin's mask" that was necessary for the job, but when it came to Natasha, he never hesitated to rip it from his face and toss it to the ground.

And here she was, telling the biggest lie of her life to a man she had known for seven years while people she met barely six months ago had figured it out. For the second time in an hour, she felt her throat tighten, and the features on Clint's weathered face started to blur. God, she really was turning into a girl.

The change in demeanor did not go unnoticed by the archer, and his expression immediately became panicked.

"Natasha, what did I say? Please, talk to me, hon; you're scaring me."

Squeezing her eyes shut, Natasha bit her lip; she refused to cry again, even if she did just want to throw herself at her partner and sob into his chest for the next five days.

Suddenly, she felt a rough hand touch her cheek, and before she could protest, Clint had pulled her into a tender kiss. Hesitantly, she looped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, allowing her undamaged fingers to thread themselves through the locks of his short chestnut hair. Inside, her emotions raged against one another. She shouldn't be doing this, locking lips with a man from whom she was keeping the biggest secret of her life; yet, somehow, it was exactly what she needed, this warm bodily contact. It felt safe, almost...like she was coming home. Like life was normal and she didn't have to worry about secrets or babies or anything else the past week had flung at her.

But it was still wrong.

With a grunt, Natasha broke the kiss, pushing herself away from the marksman.

"I'm sorry...I just can't do this."

Not meeting his eyes, the woman untangled herself from her confused partner and stood up, tripping over a cracked tile in her attempt to escape.

She did not answer his calls as she sped down the hallway.

00000000

It was uncharacteristically early for Bruce Banner to be in his laboratory. Normally, the scientist didn't head over until a little past midnight; it was when the tower was the quietest, and on top of that, he had always been somewhat of a night owl—the late evening hours were the ones in which his mind thrived. But after the slew of events the day had thrown at him, he felt that it was only appropriate that he make his voyage to the lab a bit before normal; it was a place where he needed to deal only with "science stuff"—none of those strange, unsettling phenomena known as human emotions. When he punched in the code to unlock the radiation lab's heavily secured door, he was half expecting to see Stark sitting in his "Tony chair" with his trademark AC/DC soundtrack playing on the stereo, ready to bombard him with questions and sarcastic quips the two tended to trade on the frequent occasions that they worked together. However, to his surprise, the lab had been empty, leaving him alone with his test tubes and thoughts.

The peace did not last for long, though.

About half an hour after Bruce's arrival, a series of heavy _bangs_ made him jump out of his seat, startling him out of his concentration and causing some hydrochloric acid to slosh out of the beaker he was holding.

"Of all the nights he could have picked…" Bruce muttered. "Come on, Stark! You know the goddamn code! I'm not I the mood to deal with your shenanigans right now!"

"Bruce, it's me."

The man breathed a sigh of relief; he could actually really use her company right now.

"Sorry, Tasha, I thought you were someone else. Come on in."

The first thing Bruce noticed when Natasha came in was her hand—if you could even call it that. It looked more like a giant, bleeding potato wedged on the end of a stick. Her normally delicate fingers were practically swallowed by a swollen purple lump, which was now nearly one and a half times its normal size. On top of that, small lines of dried blood caked what used to be where her knuckles were.

Bruce gave a whistle while Natasha looked glared at him defensively.

"Don't start, Banner. I'm just looking for a wrap job."

"I'm guessing the other guy looks worse?"

"Seeing as how the 'other guy' was a wall, I'd say that's a solid no."

Bruce's eyebrow quirked, but he decided not to probe any further. "Come here, let me see it."

With some difficulty, Natasha gently surrendered her injured limb to the doctor, yelping when he attempted to spread her fingers apart.

"OW! Fuck, Banner, I said wrap it, not rip it off!"

"Sheesh, I'm sorry! I'll go get some gauze." With an aggravated sigh, Bruce yanked open a drawer and fumbled around for something that could pass as tape. For someone who was a master at controlling her emotions, she sure didn't do very well at keeping the hormones at bay.

When he returned, Natasha's expression appeared to have softened a bit; she was now looking mournfully at a growing bruise on her wrist.

"You think you sprained anything?"

Natasha winced when he gingerly touched her hand again. "Hopefully not; that would do wonders for my street cred, the Black Widow being defeated by a wall."

Bruce smirked as he started to wind the athletic tape around the base of the palm. "'Street cred?' Cute, Romanoff."

"Can it, Mr. 'Shenanigans.' You're not exactly a verbal acrobat either."

For a few moments, the two just listened to the clicking of Bruce's scissors as he snipped at the gauze's threads.

"Sorry about earlier. It's been a rough day. And you know what they say, raging hormones and all…"

Bruce's entire body froze when he looked up to see Natasha's eyes boring into his. There was an expression he couldn't place, one unlike any he had ever seen from her: it was open, intense, brutally honest; like she had torn down the barriers and now stared straight into his soul. He had seen Natasha Romanoff's eyes thousands, probably even millions of times before, but never like this; never with this much depth. He suddenly felt self-conscious, and with a start, he realized how incredibly close they were—if he wanted to, he could probably count the clumps of eyelashes globbed together by the sticky combination of mascara and dried tears. He subconsciously noted that small specks of gold peppered her irises; had they always been like that? Had he really never noticed before? It seemed so obvious now…

He felt his heart speed up a little in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat. The Black Widow had always been the resident sex symbol of, well, wherever she happened to be at the time, but he never realized how _beautiful _she actually was…

"Banner?"

He blinked; his world came crashing down. A hint of disappointment twanged in his stomach when he saw that the normal barriers blockading her eyes had been resurrected, leaving the customary cold shell in their wake. He felt his shoulders slump slightly, and he shook his head.

_What the hell?_

"Doc? If you wanna ease up on the pressure, that'd be just dandy…"

With a start, Bruce realized that he was clutching the Russian's hand.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry Natasha…I got…distracted for a second…"

"Yeah, I'd say so." She looked at him suspiciously while he made one final cut and quickly whipped his hands away from hers. After he finished, the two stared at each other uncomfortably.

"Well…" Natasha said.

"Well…"

"…I'd better go. Um, thanks for the hand-job."

_Shit._

"I mean, the wrap. Thanks for the hand wrap. I didn't mean…"

"No, it's okay, I know what you meant."

Natasha looked away as a deep blush spread through the other man's cheeks. "Well, uh…thanks again."

"For the wrap."

They exchanged nervous laughter; Natasha made a bolt for the exit.

"Oh, and just so you know, they know. Like, everyone. Don't tell Barton."

Natasha practically flung herself through the door as soon as it opened, leaning her forehead against the surface's cool metal when it had once again locked in place.

_What the hell? _

Well, there you have it. I'm actually going to try to include some action in the next chapter (again, not something I have experience with,) so we'll see how that turns out. On another note, I'm heading off to Russia tomorrow to study for the next nine months or so, so if my posting is a little sporadic for a while, that's why. Thanks for reading! Feel free to tell me what you think!


	6. Chapter 6

Wow, sorry this took so long! Russia's been a little more hectic than I had anticipated, and writing time has been limited! I'm actually pretty happy with how this turned out. Things get a little more serious in this chapter in terms of Natasha and her experiences with sexuality, but I hope I could do it justice.

_The first thing she noticed she noticed about the room was the heat; it hit her like a wall as soon as she stepped through the door, weighing down on her lungs and limbs and whatever else it could touch. _

"_I hope you'll find these accommodations satisfying, Miss…?"_

"_Clobelle. Sylvia Clobelle." _

"_A beautiful name for a beautiful woman." A thick French accent oozed through chemically whitened teeth. There was something that didn't look right about them; maybe it was the way they practically gleamed in contrast to his leather Algerian skin. _

_Natasha smiled back. Her neck was starting to sweat. She willed the droplets to stop; she couldn't afford to sweat on a mission like this._

_She had to be beautiful. She had to be desirable. _

_Desirable women didn't sweat._

"_Monsieur Ferveau, has anybody ever told you that you have perfect teeth?"_

_Damn, too demanding. Lower the voice, pout the lips. Lean forward, expose cleavage, but not too much; leave him wanting more. _

_The effect worked; his eyes glazed over. Crisis averted._

"_Only you, Miss Clobelle."_

"_Call me Sylvia."_

"_I can think of a few other things to call you." _

_The two were inches apart, and he chuckled into her face. A rancid smell wafted through the air, like old meat mixed with sweat. Natasha nearly gagged._

_Chubby fingers reached out and brushed Natasha's forehead. They came back gleaming._

"_Il fait chaud en ce pays, mademoiselle. Tu ne l'aimes pas?" _

"_On the contrary, I prefer it." _

_She didn't respond in French; she was laughably non-seductive in French. _

_Ironique, non? _

_The man's smile widened; his teeth were practically blinding her._

"_Would you like to take something off?"_

_Natasha resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was tiring of this game._

_Men. _

_The wheels in Natasha's mind started to turn faster. Start phase two. _

"_I thought you'd never ask, Monsieur."_

_Off came the shoes. He stepped closer to her; their noses practically touched. _

"_Has anyone ever told _you,_ Miss Clobelle, that you have lovely feet?"_

_A thin strap of red Prada dress slid down a pale shoulder. _

"_Only you, Monsieur Ferveau." _

_Other strap down. _

_Now let the dress follow._

_She stood in front of the man with a mere three pieces of cloth covering that which would soon be uncovered. A greedy look gleamed in his eye; she knew this look better than she knew herself._

_Which wasn't saying much._

"_Vous voulez faire la reste, Monsieur?"_

_He was too far gone for the effects to be undone—might as well try her hand at the language of love._

_He nearly drooled._

"_Je commencais __à__ penser que tu ne demanderais jamais."_

_She prepared herself to feel the normal chill of cool air on exposed flesh, but instead found that her entire body had become sticky. _

_She knew that Cambodia could be hot, but would it have killed this guy to install a damn air conditioner? He was richer than the queen of England anyway. _

"_Vous __ê__tes m__ê__me plus belle sans v__ê__tements, Mademoiselle." _

_She leaned forward and covered his lips with hers; if he said one more thing she might strangle him._

_His hands caressed her neck, her back, her breasts—whatever they could touch, they grabbed with lusting fervor. She pressed her moist stomach against his equally moist undershirt, and the two bodies slid across one another with a slickness created by layers of perspiration. _

_It sickened Natasha._

_How could anyone enjoy this game?_

_A low moan vibrated against the woman's lips._

_Right on cue; time to reciprocate._

_Suddenly she heard something, something that didn't belong in this setting—a high-pitched wail that echoed against the walls and made it so that it was all she could hear._

_It was a baby's cry._

_Natasha ripped herself away from her partner, and with a startling jolt, she realized that his face had disappeared—only the glaring white teeth remained. _

_And the screaming hadn't stopped. _

_Natasha fell to the ground and covered her ears, but the voice only became louder, rising in volume until it pierced through her eardrums and made it impossible to think. She tried to close her eyes but couldn't; all she could see was those grinning white teeth, that smile that judged her, lusted for her, controlled her—it was as if that one set of teeth contained within it all the men who had ever laid a finger on her, ever looked at her as though she were nothing but a whore with only a body to give. _

_And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, and very slowly, the child's voice began to speak:_

"_You're a coward, Natasha Romanoff." _

_The world went black._

Natasha woke with a gasp, bolting straight up in her bed as if she had been electrocuted. Sucking in deep breaths of air, she placed a hand on her forehead.

A dream…it was just a dream.

Unfortunately, the sweating was not.

With a disgusted grimace, Natasha peeled her cotton nightshirt off of her back; it had become so soaked that even the bed sheets were now a little moist.

After stripping her bed and tossing the remains into her hamper, she made her way down to the Stark Tower family room—even with clean sheets, there was no way she'd fall asleep in her own bed tonight.

Luckily, the room was dark and void of any life when she arrived. Sometimes Stark and Pepper stayed there and talked or played games or read books until the sun started to peak over the horizon, but she guessed that they had gone to their rooms early to avoid running the risk of meeting her again. With good reason, too; she didn't know what she would do when she saw them next, but her guess was that it would not bode well for anyone.

With a sigh, Natasha let herself fall onto the hard white couch, the back of her head hitting the arm rest with a loud _thump_. She winced but made no movement to dull the throbbing—right now, she just wanted to slip into a long, eventless sleep.

That dream…it had all seemed so real. Up until those terrifying cries, everything was going exactly as it had that night in Cambodia, from the heat straight down to the red Prada dress she wore.

_And those teeth…_

She suppressed a shudder and closed her eyes, but the image remained branded in the back of her mind. She hadn't had a nightmare in a long time.

Back during her starting days at SHIELD, Natasha's brain was a regular nightmare soap opera—she couldn't even begin to count the number of nights she woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding and hands clutching the blankets in a vice grip. In the old days, she would crawl into Clint's bed and curl up next to him, his warmth welcome and comforting despite the perspiration lining her brow and neck. Often, the man would wake up the moment he felt the bed springs creak, and he would hold her close and stroke her hair and whisper nonsensical words into her ear until she fell asleep again.

Somehow, she didn't think that would work this time. She'd have to tough this one out on her own.

Turning on her side, she let her mind drift back to Clint's earlier comment.

"_I feel like we've been drifting lately, and I don't know if it was because of something I did, but if it was…you'd tell me, right?"_

An uneasy feeling started to well in Natasha's stomach. Was Clint right? Were they drifting? She tried to think back to the last serious conversation they'd had with one another, the last time they had sat together on a park bench or diner booth and talked until morning, the last time she had snuck a kiss. To her surprise, she found that she couldn't.

She supposed she had been a bit distant since her return from Cambodia—but she had acted that way to everybody! It certainly wasn't due to a personal vendetta against her partner. He was her best friend, maybe even more than that; to throw that all away and head down some uncharted path seemed…illogical. Unnatural.

And who even said she was doing that in the first place? Friends, lovers, spouses…they all had their own awkward moments, didn't they? No one could see each other every day for the majority of their lives without hitting a bump in the road eventually!

_Was _her best friend…_maybe _even more…

Was she even sure of that in the first place?

Natasha felt a stab of pain in her heart, and her chest tightened a bit. She knew she loved Clint—as a friend, as a partner, as her savior, he would always remain one of the most important people in her life. But romantically? She had no idea. Was she even capable of feeling that? When Natasha first came to America, she had scoffed at all the happy-go-lucky people who wore their hearts on their sleeves, saying "I love you" to practically anyone who could give them a box of chocolates or parade them around on some uppity horse-drawn carriage ride. In Russia, many couples said "I love you" twice, maybe three times during their marriage—and it normally came towards the end, after the two had spent their whole lives together. If what people said about love was true—that it was one of the rarest, most beautiful emotions in the world that burned in the deepest part of your soul and made you physically hurt with affection—then she was pretty sure her feelings towards Clint were not those of romance. Movies and books and silly little TV shows were always talking about _the one_—he's _the one,_ you'll know when it's _the one,_ someday you'll meet _the one…_ Was Clint _the one_? Did Natasha even have _one_? Was it possible to have only one? With all the millions and billions of people in the world and all the hundreds and thousands of hours in a lifetime, was it possible that there could only be _one _true soul mate out there for everybody?

The image of Bruce's eyes suddenly popped into her head, the one from their previous evening in the lab. She had seen Bruce's eyes many, many times before, but never like this, never with this much depth. The man was shy, reserved; he talked only when necessary, save a few sly comments here and there around the dinner table. He was nervous; he shifted a lot. His eyes darted around the room, and his hands awkwardly wrung themselves or scratched the back of his neck whenever he felt to be the center of attention. But when he had looked at her tonight, it was as if the blockade had gone down, leaving her free to stare into the bottom of his soul. His eyes were kind, honest, extremely tired, but almost…hopeful. Like he had seen the worst the world had to offer but still believed that things were not as bad as they seemed. She noticed that they were pure brown, the exact color of a Hershey's chocolate bar. Then, with a start, she realized she had never really known the color of his eyes before; was she really that daft?

But the thing that struck her most was how he looked at her—actually looked at her, free of judgment or anger or condescension or lust…he was looking at the real Natasha, as if he were truly interested in the woman that had been buried by years of secrecy and disguise and emotional confusion. He had, if only for a moment, broken that shell that had been hardening since she was five years old—something no one else had been able to do.

Natasha sighed and rolled over so that she was lying on her stomach. Her eyebrows quirked downwards, and for a moment she wondered if what she was doing was going to suffocate the baby. Realistically, she knew that was impossible; it was still tiny, no bigger than a fist at the most—it probably couldn't even feel the pressure at this point. Did fetuses even have the ability to suffocate? Did they even breathe? Was that a stupid question?

Well, at least she'd never had to go undercover as a Health Education teacher. Just to be safe, she decided to turn to rest on her side, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest in an attempt to keep warm. For a few moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the whooshing of heat through the vent and the pounding of Natasha's heartbeat. If she didn't get something to distract her soon, she had a feeling she was going to explode.

"TV, on." Natasha's low-pitched voice reverberated through the room, and the oversized television flickered on to reveal the flashing black and white image of a happy young man tap dancing to a snappy tune playing in the background. Closing her eyes, Natasha let the music wash over her and lull her into a deep, restless sleep.

0000000

A high-pitched wailing sound pierced the air of the silent tower.

"TROUBLE, FRIENDS!"

Natasha winced and pulled her knees to her chest. How was Thor's voice actually _louder _than the alarm?

Within ten minutes—a slower reaction time than normal due to the late hour—the entire team was gathered in the family room awaiting orders from the Captain. Clint was the last one to stumble into the room, his hair tangled and mussed from just waking up.

"Don't these people have the manners to wait until I've had a cup of coffee to pull a heist?"

"Not everybody needs ten hours of beauty sleep, Princess," Tony grumbled. If there was anyone who was worse at dealing with a mid-night wakeup call, it was the billionaire.

"Quit it, you two," Captain quipped. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go back to bed. Is everyone here?"

"BANNER IS ABSENT," Thor boomed with a grin. Natasha gave him a look of half annoyance, half admiration; while she wished he wouldn't shout so loud, she respected his ability to be so chipper at so ungodly an hour.

"No, I'm here." Natasha jumped at the sound of the mumbling voice; she hadn't even heard the man come in. Awkwardly, he raised a hand to greet her. She gave him a curt nod in return.

"Are you okay?" he whispered to her while Steve (with the help of Tony) booted up the computer. "You look exhausted."

"Couldn't sleep. I'll be fine." Natasha felt heat spread through her face, and she turned away from Bruce's intense gaze; she was grateful it was so dark in the room, or she would feel even more embarrassed than she already was.

"Okay, so here's the deal, men. And lady," Steve said, nodding towards Natasha. "Twenty guys with guns—big guns—are holding exactly eighteen hostages, including both employees and patrons, at a 24-hour McDonald's down on 75th. According to their demands, we have exactly twenty-eight minutes until they act."

"McDonald's?" Clint asked incredulously. "What, was their BigMac not meaty enough?"

"Good one, Seinfeld," Tony snapped with a roll of his eyes. The Captain silenced them with a sharp glare.

"According to our information, the manager is in deep with the head of the local mafia chapter. When he couldn't pay, these guys decided to get the goods another way. From the looks of it, they've already taken the manager to the back and executed him; our job is to stop them before they do the same to anyone else. Any questions?"

"Yeah, is this open-note? I kind of forgot to study over the weekend."

"I'll take that as a no, then. Let's go, kids."

In a brisk manner, the Avengers filed out of the living room to the jet's loading dock. Natasha had a feeling this night wasn't even close to being over.

000000

"Was it really necessary to take the jet?" Clint whispered into Natasha's ear. "I could walk there before this thing gets wherever we're going."

Natasha merely shrugged, yawning as she did so; the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll on her, and she didn't really feel like talking at the moment. As the team had decided to take the smaller vehicle, space was rather limited, and the woman was currently squeezed between Clint and the bug-smeared window on her right.

"You okay, Tash?" Clint whispered again in a concerned tone. "You seem upset."

"I'm fine," she shot back. She was getting sick of that question.

"Would you love birds quiet down back there? It's too early for your banter," Tony called from his copilot seat in the cockpit.

With a small smile, Clint pressed his leg against Natasha's so that the sides of their thighs were touching. Without thinking, Natasha jerked hers away, drawing a little closer into herself. Clint frowned and leaned into Natasha so that his lips barely brushed her ear.

"Natasha, listen, I—"

"Here!" Steve barked from the front.

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief as she rapidly fumbled to undo her seatbelt.

"Go time. We'll talk later, okay, Clint?" She said while backing quickly out of the aircraft. In an effort to avoid meeting his eyes, she scanned the premises in a half-hearted attempt to survey their current situation.

If a group of seedy thugs had to pick a McDonald's to hijack, this one really was the prime contestant: dirt was smeared on its cinderblock walls, empty liquor bottles and broken glass littered the parking lot, and the majority of the letters on its neon sign were either flickering out or had gone completely dark. In short, it looked like the fast food restaurant from Hell. Steve gave a disgusted grimace as some brown glass crunched under his foot, and he shook his head disapprovingly. Natasha felt a small smile grow on her face; there was something refreshing about the pure, wholly innocent goodness of the Captain.

"Okay, team, here's the plan," Steve said in an almost-whispered as the group gathered to crouch under a large, grimy window. "According to the debriefing page, we've still got about 15 minutes until they make another move, but I don't want to take any chances, so let's get this part over with quickly. Romanoff, Barton, you go in first through the front—try and get their attention while we make our way through the back."

Clint raised his eyebrows. "Really, Cap? The _distraction_?"

"I know, tedious job, but someone's gotta do it. Stark, Thor, you and I will sneak in the back way and sabotage them from behind. Thor, I'm hoping it's not gonna take more than the two of us to get this done, so Tony, I'm counting on you to serve as the intimidation factor. Banner, I doubt we're really going to need you in this fight, but stand by in case things get a little messier than we intended them to."

"Ouch, lumped in with the distractions. I see where we stand on this team," Tony said, looping an arm around Bruce.

Steve ignored the comment. "All right, guys, this should be an easy in-and-out, so let's try and have this done in twenty minutes, got it?" No one answered. "Okay. Let's go!"

Natasha watched the four men retreat from view as she and Clint held their crouch near the door. Once they were gone, Clint turned to her and began to speak.

"Nat…Natasha…please, tell me why you're upset with me. I can't fix it if I don't even know what I did."

The tone of Clint's voice made Natasha's heart break, but she continued to avoid eye contact. "Now's not the time, Barton. We've got a job to do. Do you have the lock tool?"

There was a long pause, and Natasha had to look back to make sure the man was still there. She found him staring back at her with a betrayed expression on his face.

"Clint?" She tried to make her voice as soft as possible.

He snapped out of his reverie. "Yeah. Got it," he said curtly. "Let's go."

"Listen, Clint, I never said that—"

"No, you're right. We have a job to do. Come on."

"Clint, wait!"

It was too late; before she could get his attention, he had moved from the window and was heading towards the locked door. Biting her lip, Natasha got up and followed. To her surprise and delight, she found that no one was guarding the entrance—not a soul could be seen in the grungy foyer.

"Looks like we're dealing with some rookies," Natasha whispered in Clint's direction. He grunted in response and slapped the piece of Stark Technology onto the door's handle, roughly swinging it open when the machine gave its beep of permission.

"Ready?" he said gruffly.

"Wait! What's our story?"

He blinked, his eyes lighting up for a moment before once again going dark. This had been a long-going game of the duo, thinking up some crazy story for their undercover alter egos. It started when Natasha had first begun warming up to Clint, back during some of her first months at SHIELD; for some reason, it was these little moments that had made the two become so close in the first place.

He shrugged, turning his back to her. "You pick. Not in the mood."

Natasha's stomach dropped, but she nodded her head and joined him at his place next to the door leading into the dining room.

"On my count," he barked quietly. "One, two, THREE!"

For a split second, all ill-harbored feelings were forgotten, and instincts took over as the two moved with perfectly synchronization into the thug-infested restaurant.

"FREEZE!" The partners yelled in unison. They stood next to each other and simultaneously held up their empty hands so that the crooks could see them. Of course, both were carrying at least two or three guns, but often the site of a firearm made the opposite party make a wild shot, especially when it came to rookies.

The men jumped in shock and whipped around to point the loaded weapons at the new guests.

"What the…" one of the bigger guys said in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Yo, Nick, I thought you said we was secure!"

"I did, man!" Squeaked an acne-covered boy who looked to be no older than 18. "I checked, like, three times!"

"Well apparently you didn't check enough, dipshit!" The greasy man spun to point his gun at the trembling teen.

"Whoa, calm down, hotshot! Your kid's telling the truth. We just have our ways past these things," Natasha interjected. The thug looked at her suspiciously.

"Yeah? And what are you, some kind'a cops or somethin'?"

"Yeah, something like that," Clint said coolly.

"Some cops! They ain't even got guns, boss!" The kid piped.

The man snorted. "Yeah, the brat's got a point! How you plannin' on stoppin' us, exactly?"

"We have our ways," Natasha repeated. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of red, white, and blue. _About time, _she thought; these guys were getting antsy.

"Yeah? I'd like to see you try that with ya brains blown halfway to Harlem," the boss sneered, pointing the gun at Natasha's cranium. "Nick, cover the boyfriend."

"Yes, boss!" With a stumble, the boy hustled over to Clint and pressed his pistol to the archer's forehead. A menacing smile growing on his face, the leader swaggered over to Natasha. Roughly, he grabbed her chin, pulling her face so that it was just centimeters from his own.

"I gotta say, sweetheart, you look like you gotta fine rack goin' on under this suit. I'll make you a deal—you let me take a peak and I won't blast ya boyfriend's head off his neck."

Natasha felt Clint stiffen as soon as the man's hairy hand clutched at the zipper hanging near her neck. Suddenly, a clang sounded through the room, and the man's body went limp and crumpled to the ground.

"You are a disgusting man," Thor muttered contemptuously. Angrily, he raised his hammer and turned towards the rest of the terrified group of crooks. "All of you, drop your weapons and you will not be harmed. If you should choose to disagree, we will not hesitate to take action."

The shocked crooks let their guns clatter to the ground, falling to their knees and raising their arms in defeat. The chatty teenager, who looked as if he was about to faint, made a clumsy dash for the door, but Natasha caught him by the shirt and pinned him to the wall by the back of his neck.

"That's more like it," the Captain said sternly. "Now, I don't know how you folks do things in your part of town, but here, if you disobey the law, you're going to get punished. You have about fifteen minutes until the police arrive and take you into custody, where you will be read your rights. Any questions?"

A choked, high-pitched sob rang through the room, a sob eerily similar to the one in Natasha's dream. The woman turned her head to see a small child, no older than three or four, toddle from the restaurant's play place and into the arms of a horrified-looking man. A look of pure terror radiated from the child's face, and crocodile tears fell from her large blue eyes and down her cheeks. The man, whose expression mirrored his daughter's, fell to his knees, scooped the little girl up in his arms, and buried his face in her hair, sobbing unintelligible words into the mass of blonde curls.

For a moment, Natasha felt like her heart had ceased to beat; it was as if time itself had frozen. Her breath caught in her throat, and her stomach churned uneasily as her eyes glued themselves to the shaking figure of the young girl. She did not even notice as the prisoner she was holding loosed himself from her grip and reached to draw a pistol from his jacket pocket.

"NATASHA, LOOK OUT!"

From that point forward, everything seemed to move in slow-motion. A shot rang through the air, and for a split second, Natasha thought that she had been killed. Before she came to the realization that the kid had missed, she heard the all-too-familiar sound of the gun cocking again, but for some reason, her body refused to move. In front of her, she could see Clint mouthing something, eyes wide, a terrified expression on his face; she couldn't remember what it was he had said, though the image remained engrained in her memory for the rest of her life. Then, all of a sudden, everything became a blur: a shot rang out, and a flash of green moved in the corner of her eye. Something rammed into her side, stopping her breath in her chest and causing her head to snap back, and suddenly, she felt herself slam into a hard surface.

There was a sharp pain, and the world went black.

Well, there you go! Like I said, I tried to delve a little deeper into the whole "female-superhero-sexuality" thing, so here's hoping that I did okay. Please tell me what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Wow, sorry that took so long! Life's been pretty busy around here.

"_Can you hear me, Natasha? Can you open your eyes for me?"_

Where was she? In a restaurant. Clint was there. He was scared—why was he scared? Was that Clint? Was…Clint…

None of her thoughts made sense.

"_No, no, stay with me, Natasha—stay with me, honey! Don't fall asleep!"_

Her mind flickered out.

When Natasha came to again, the first thing she heard was the strong, rhythmic beeping of a machine. It suddenly clicked that it was the pattern of her heartbeat.

"Natasha? It's me—can you wake up, sweetheart?"

The voice was stronger now, closer, and she instantly recognized it as Bruce's.

Grimacing, she licked her dry lips; her head was throbbing, and for some reason, each breath she took sent a ripple of pain through her abdomen and chest. Right now, all she wanted to do was drift into a painless sleep.

"Natasha, please, open your eyes for me."

Slowly, she let her eyes flicker open, but squeezed them back shut and let out a choked groan when the light hit her irises. The sudden transfer from dark to bright was doing nothing for her aching skull.

She felt something warm and firm gently rest itself on her forehead.

"Here, try now."

Cautiously, she cracked an eye open and prepared herself for the onslaught of fluorescent beams, but to her surprise, they never came; slowly, she came to realize that Bruce's hand was shielding her from the worst of it.

"Okay, I'm going to take my hand away now. You think you can handle it?"

Natasha gave a grunt of agreement, and she abruptly found herself looking at Bruce Banner's worn face staring back down at her. The poor man looked like he had been to hell and back: his clothes were wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and the corners of his mouth outlined by deep, worried wrinkles. The worst, though, were his eyes, under which were dark, heavy circles. It looked as if he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in quite some time.

Speaking of which, how many "decent night's sleep" had she spent like this?

"Ou aahngaf ahb'n ou'?" She closed her mouth in shock. _Wow, nice going, Romanoff, _she thought.

Bruce gave a small, tired smile and placed a finger on her lips. "Shh, it's okay, don't try to talk. We were at the McDonald's, remember? You got…distracted… and the guy you were holding pulled a gun on you. I transformed and got to you before the bullet could, but I kind of accidentally knocked you into a wall and you hit your head pretty hard."

"Man, you should have seen his reaction time! Fastest Hulking-out I've witnessed to-date!" Tony Stark suddenly appeared next to the disheveled doctor and ruffled his hair playfully. Bruce made a sheepish attempt to smooth it back into place, but at this point, Natasha doubted anything except a razor could tame the tangles. "And the noise your head made when it hit that wall!"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Bruce added guilty. "Control isn't really the Other Guy's strong suit."

Tony gave a sharp laugh, but his expression abruptly became solemn.

"Seriously, though, I'm glad you're awake. It's been a rough couple of weeks."

_A couple of weeks? _

"How long'af I b'n out?" Not perfect, but at least it was halfway intelligible. The men looked at each other.

"…About two and a half weeks," Tony answered reluctantly when it was clear that Bruce was remaining silent on the issue. "Nineteen days, actually. You cracked your skull and your brain experienced some swelling. Not much, but enough to cause some anxiety around the ICU for a while. You also have a couple of broken ribs, but I'm sure you've seen worse in your day." He lightly punched her on the shoulder, though it was more of a tap so as to make sure not to aggravate any injuries.

Natasha's expression faltered, then gulped audibly; she was afraid to ask the next question.

"Wha' aboutthe baby?"

A silence filled the room, and Natasha's breath caught in her throat. _No, no, please no… _

Her heart rate began to speed up and was immediately reflected on the monitor.

"Is it…"

Bruce rapidly shook his head. "No, no, no, not at all. No. It's alive; I don't know how, but it's alive."

Natasha breathed a sigh of relief and placed a heavily taped hand on her stomach…it was alive…it was still alive…

"The doctors said it was a miracle, actually—said they'd never seen anything like it."

The Russian frowned. "Why didn't you wanna tell me?"

Bruce took a deep breath and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, the doctors warned us…and this is just a guess, mind you…that the impact may have caused some damage to the left side of the body. _May have,_" he emphasized when Natasha's eyes widened. "And that's just a possibility. Even so, the baby _will _live, assuming you don't do anything too physical within the next eight months."

"And hey, if this baby is anything like its mom, it's gonna be just fine," Tony added with a smile. "It's already shown that it's not going down easy any time soon."

Natasha let her head sink further into her pillow as she attempted to process the bulk of news that had just been thrown at her. So many words zoomed through her brain, but the continued pulses of pain made it difficult to concentrate on just one…_bullets…damage…would live…_

_Nothing too physical…_

Natasha frowned. "Nothing too physical…so that means—"

"Yup. You're on maternity leave, Agent," Tony confirmed.

"So no more missions?"

"Not unless it involves sewing elastic bands onto your pants."

"And I guess that means I have to tell…"

"…Clint and Fury?" Bruce finished for her.

"I was thinking just Fury."

Tony frowned. "Wait, Birdboy doesn't know yet?"

A slight pink blush spread through Natasha's cheeks. "No…I've kind of been holding off on telling him."

"So…he's the last to know?"

"I guess."

Tony let out a long whistle. "Ouch, someone's gonna be sleeping on the couch pretty soon."

"Come on, Stark, lay off," Bruce said firmly when he saw Natasha's lips tighten. "This whole thing hasn't exactly been easy on her."

"Still, he's gonna figure something out when little miss Victoria's Secret has gained 40 pounds and starts to wear a Mumu. I mean, the guy may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he's—"

"I know, I know! Urrgh." Natasha squinted her eyes shut and clutched at her head. "Listen, I know I need to tell him, but…it's not that easy. Right now, my head is killing me and I just want to go to sleep."

Bruce touched her shoulder lightly. "We understand, Natasha. Go to sleep, we'll be here when you wake up."

With a sigh, Natasha relaxed her eyes and let her mind drift off into a dreamless sleep.

000000

The next few days were passed in a dream-like state; Natasha drifted in and out of sleep, each time waking up to a different one of her teammates perched next to her bed. She had begun to memorize their respective waiting routines: Tony listened to music and tapped away on some gadget, the Captain scribbled away in a notepad, Thor read comic books, and Clint stroked strands of her hair and hummed to himself while half-watching a small TV hanging on the wall. Bruce didn't really have a specific activity that marked his shift. First of all, he always seemed exhausted, sometimes teetering on the verge of looking ragged. Secondly, whenever she came into consciousness, he never seemed to be looking at anything except her; his glazed eyes were always fixated on hers, as if constantly searching for the green that lay behind the pale lids.

"Do you just watch me while I sleep?" Natasha asked jokingly one day after a hospital lunch of meatloaf and Jell-O.

"Well, I might miss something important if I get distracted," he answered with a lopsided smile.

"Oh? Do you keep track of all this?"

"I have a notebook separated by five-minute increments. There's a separate part for pictures, too. I figured I could sell it to some people and use the money to run away with my nineteen-year-old girlfriend to Tahiti."

"Nineteen? Never figured you as a cradle-robber, Banner."

"Not usually. But she has a pretty smoking beach bod. Which is why we chose Tahiti."

"Please never say 'beach bod' again," Natasha said with a laugh. "What does this minor look like?"

"Hey, nineteen is technically not a minor!" Bruce thought for a moment. "And like you, except green."

A nervous feeling fluttered in Natasha's stomach, almost like butterflies, but she pushed it back down. "I don't think I can picture that," she said finally.

"It looks kinda like this." Bruce took a palm-full of the lime Jell-O and smudged it over Natasha's nose and forehead. The woman wiped it off and flicked it at Bruce, who made an unsuccessful attempt to dodge it.

"Shoot, now I'm gonna be sticky. Thanks a lot, Romanoff."

"You started it!"

The two looked at each other and began to laugh, Natasha doubling over half from pain, half from how ridiculous they must have looked together.

"You're funny. Why don't you act like this around the team?" The redhead asked when the laughter had died down.

Bruce shrugged, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I don't know. I'm more comfortable around you, I guess. The others make me kind of nervous, and it's always been a little hard to, you know, be myself. I guess I've never really had anyone I could come out of my shell with except for you. And Tony, maybe," he added.

Natasha nodded. "Yeah. It takes a lot of time and trust before you can really relax around someone. I was a wreck until I met Clint."

Bruce frowned, but gave a grunt of agreement.

"You have a nice laugh," he added after a moment of silence. "We don't really get to hear much of it around the tower."

"Thanks," Natasha mumbled. The butterflies in her stomach had returned, this time with a little more force.

The two spent a few moments in an uncomfortable silence until Bruce cleared his throat and looked at his watch.

"Well, it's almost Steve's turn, so I'd better go. You know how he likes to be early."

"Forever the gentleman."

Bruce chuckled and stood to leave. Before he reached the door, he turned to look back at her. "I'll see you later, Natasha. And thanks…for everything."

"You're welcome? I think I'm the one who should be saying thank you. If it weren't for you, I'd be another stain on the McDonald's wall right now."

Bruce gave a sad smile and continued to talk with a strange tone in his voice. "Yeah, I suppose. Well, see you, Natasha."

"Bye."

The scientist gave one last wave before he gently closed the door.

0000000

"…And so he commenced to eat the entire thing!" Thor shouted, spewing chunks of cornbread onto Natasha's blanket as he doubled over in laughter.

"Lovely." Natasha flicked at one of the crumbs that had landed on her arm. "I actually prefer Steve's two-hour recount of the Watergate scandal. At least it didn't involve insects."

Thor shoved the last hunk of cornbread in his mouth before wiping his hands on his jeans and grinning. "Would you prefer I read to you another tale from one of my novels?"

Natasha cringed; surprisingly, Thor's Asgardian books were possibly the only things more boring than Steve Roger's history lectures.

"You know what? I think I'm just going to watch a movie and try to get some sleep. If you want to do some silent reading, be my guest."

"My pleasure, Miss Romanoff."

Thor retreated to a corner with a stack of thin paperback books while Natasha flipped through the hospital cable's limited channels. Truthfully, she really didn't give a damn about television; she just wanted everyone to get out of her way and leave her be.

Natasha appreciated her friends' efforts—she really did. It was nice to know that there were people who cared about her, especially since her history hadn't ever really allowed her to spread her social wings. But sometimes, she just wanted them to understand that all she wanted to do was sit and have some time to think about things.

Like how the hell she was going to keep her secret safe from Clint after the entire fleet of SHIELD employees were talking about it. Even the interns who worked in the dining hall would know.

Luckily, the two were able to pass a few hours in silence. Thor had ended up being the one to fall asleep, leaving Natasha to stare out the window and count the number of people who fell on a particularly slippery step leading up to the hospital. By the time she had managed to drift into a doze, the door banged open to reveal the ward's head nurse and Natasha's teammates. Thor woke up with a start, sending his books flying across the floor.

"Smooth, Dex," Tony said.

"Well, Natasha, I think you and everyone else will be pleased to know that it's your last day here," the nurse piped. "Are you excited? You've been a great patient!"

"Yup, euphoric." Natasha rolled her eyes; she wouldn't be surprised if this lady up and handed her a lollipop and puppy sticker.

The chipper woman didn't seem to catch the sarcasm. "Now, that's not to say that you're out of the woods quite yet. You've suffered some brain trauma, and you may experience some confusion for the next few weeks or so, especially with the medications. Expect some pain in the ribcage and chest areas. But I'm telling you, young lady, you should be counting your lucky stars—things could have gone a lot worse! When the doctors told me you were expecting, I turned to Becky and I said, '_Oh, Becky, thank goodness that lady luck was watching out for that little thing!_' I tell you, I—"

"Stop." It was Clint.

The entire room froze. It was as if someone had kicked Natasha in the stomach and knocked out all the breath in her body. Tony and Steve exchanged nervous glances while Thor looked down at his shoes. Bruce just watched Clint nervously.

"Is this true, Nat?"

Natasha said something, instead focusing on her petite hands clutching onto her blanket.

"Natasha, I asked, is this true?"

Natasha flinched at the anger in his voice. She was starting to feel dizzy.

"Natasha, if you don't answer me right now, I swear to God I'll—I'll—"

"Lay off, Barton!" The group whipped around to look at the source of the voice. Bruce stood at Natasha's right side, a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Natasha's been through a lot. I doubt that you yelling at her is going to make things better."

The angry glint in Clint's eyes remained, but his voice became noticeably more calm.

"Natasha, please. Is this true?"

The woman said nothing; she just stared at the door and nodded her head.

"How long?"

Nothing.

"I said, how long?"

"One and a half months," she mumbled.

"One and a half months." The angry tone was completely gone; now, it just sounded cold. "And how many people know?"

Natasha gulped; she couldn't answer that one alone.

"Five of us," Steve said instead.

"So I'm the last to know."

"Technically, Fury doesn't know yet," Tony offered. Clint just glared at him.

"So, I'm your partner and your oldest friend here, and you've been keeping this from me for one and a half months. But you sit down and tell these guys during your morning cup of tea."

"Clint, it wasn't like that—"

"I don't want to hear it, Rogers." His voice wasn't cold anymore; it was dead. "Well, you all have fun planning your baby showers. Pick out some names, while you're at it. I'm going home. See ya."

"Clint, wait!"

"I said 'see ya,' Romanoff."

The door slammed shut. The room was quiet for a moment, and then, as if from nowhere, Natasha burst into tears, covering her face with her hands so that her teammates wouldn't have to see. Suddenly, the nurse, who until how had been standing awkwardly in the center of the room, walked carefully up to Natasha and patted her on the head.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Would you like a lollipop?"

Sorry about the length of this chapter! If I had put it with the next chapter, it would have averaged out to about 7,000 words, so I figured it would just be better if I put this segment up first. The good news is I have about half of the next chapter written, so the gap shouldn't be as long! Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far—I promise I'll write you thank-you messages when it gets a little less hectic! Please tell me what you think!


	8. Chapter 8

Well, the length of this chapter certainly makes up for that of the last one! Once again, thank you to all of you who have reviewed/favorited/followed—I know I keep repeating myself, but it means a lot to me!

"Give me five, Romanoff."

Natasha gave a frustrated sigh and leaned against the wall of the headquarters. How Fury could tell which of the hundreds of SHIELD workers was at the door based on a knock, she would never know. Moving to a chair sitting across from her boss' door, Natasha put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

The past three weeks had been some of the worst in her life—and those weren't exactly few in number. After an embarrassing trip home from the hospital (the nurse and Bruce had insisted that she use a wheelchair, despite the fact that she was perfectly capable of walking,) and an equally embarrassing few hours spent in a loopy delirium from the medications, Natasha came to the tower to find no sign of her partner. She then spent three days confined to her bed unable to fall asleep. Whenever she started to doze off, a sudden feeling of uneasiness overtook her, and she snapped back into consciousness. Although she didn't spend every night in Clint's room, she could always find comfort in the fact that he was right next door. Not having him in the tower at all made it nearly impossible to function, especially knowing how furious he was with her. She had called him so often that she had his voice mail recording memorized, which made her even more humiliated; she felt like a teenage girl obsessing over some crush.

He finally returned in the middle of a rainy Tuesday night; Natasha heard his light footsteps padding down the hallway. She sat up so quickly it made her dizzy, but she managed to stumble to the door and catch him before he could get into his room.

"Where were you?" She had asked in a whisper. He didn't look at her.

"Had to think." His response was quick and cold.

"I missed you," she offered.

There was a long pause; his hand remained frozen on the door's keypad.

"Well, I'm back." He punched a button and stormed into his room.

The two had not had any contact since that night. He was constantly slipping in and out of the tower, and on the rare occasion that he was somewhere other than his room, he refused to even speak to her. On top of that, the rest of the team was busy dealing with emergency alarms and press calls, leaving Natasha alone with her thoughts. Which, in her experience, was never good.

So now, here she was, sitting on a hard plastic chair with her arms across her chest like a kid who had been called down to the principal's office. There was a loud beep and the door across from her opened.

"In here, Romanoff."

Natasha stood up, grimacing at some of the lingering pain that remained in her ribs. It was actually Fury who had called the meeting—probably concerning her recent screw-up—but Bruce had said that it was just as good a time as any to tell him.

For the office of the director of one of the most prestigious international espionage agencies, Nick Fury's quarters were surprisingly humble. There was a desk, two chairs—one occupied by Fury himself—a computer, and a box of Kleenex. The walls were bare except for the trademark SHIELD logo and a small American flag.

"Sit."

Natasha did so.

The two remained in silence for a few moments as Fury hurriedly typed at some document, the clacking of the keys echoing off the walls. Finally, he finished his typing, hit one final button, and slammed the computer shut. He did not turn around to face her.

"Agent Romanoff, would you care to tell me how a simple in-and-out turned into a full-scale brawl nearly resulting in your and several others' deaths?"

She remained silent. If her years of working with Nick Fury had taught her anything, it was that about seventy percent of his questions were rhetorical.

"And on top of that, it was with _rookies, _Romanoff. You've taken down seventy-two highly intelligent HYDRA agents with nothing but a pistol, but you up and let some punk-ass kid pull a gun on you? You got away on luck, Romanoff."

"Most of my victories have been because of luck. Sir," she added when he whipped around and glared at her. "And if there was anything that saved me from that bullet, it was Banner."

"Who shouldn't have been involved in the first place," Fury continued. "You've been here long enough to know the drill, Romanoff—in small-scale robberies, hostage situations, and holdups, Banner is to remain on the sidelines in observation unless intervention is needed."

"Well, maybe intervention was needed!" Natasha stood up, her voice rising in pitch. "Look, I messed up—I underestimated my opponent. But Banner was just doing his duty as a teammate when he reacted like he did! He saw need for intervention, and he intervened! I don't see what's so—"

"You underestimated your opponent?!" Fury said with a laugh. "I'll tell you what you did—you got sloppy and were nearly blown up by some eighteen-year-old kid on his first trip out on the town. There is nothing about that situation that you shouldn't have been able to handle by yourself with your eyes sewn shut, Romanoff."

"I don't see what the big deal is," Natasha mumbled. "I didn't die, the good guys won, no harm done. Can we just call it a lesson learned and leave it at that?"

Fury sat back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at her, studying her with intensity. "You didn't see the after-photos, did you?"

Natasha froze. "After-photos?"

"Ah, there it is. So no one told you about Banner's little episode after you hit the wall."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Fury."

Nick said nothing; he simply rolled his chair back, fished around in a drawer underneath his desk, and pulled out a thin manila folder stamped with SHIELD's initials in red ink. Still seated, he leaned forward and handed it to Natasha.

The woman took it cautiously, keeping her eyes on her boss until he nodded at her to open the file. What she saw made her mouth drop open in shock.

The pictures before her made the seedy diner she knew look like a five-star restaurant. Not a single table or chair was intact; instead, they lay in smashed pieces and scattered all over the floor. The windows and lamps had been shattered, and from the looks of it, a foggy gas was leaking from broken pipes jutting from the ceiling. A small smattering of blood was smeared on the wall—probably hers, she realized—and most of the tiles covering the floor had been either cracked or ripped out altogether. It looked like a scene straight out of Armageddon.

Her stomach sunk as she continued to flip through the photos, each one revealing more and more damage; even the freezer in the back hadn't escaped the Hulk's rage. Fury simply watched her as she studied each picture with a sickened expression.

"Was anyone hurt?" She said finally.

"One man. Knocked in the ribs by Banner. Rogers got to him before he could hit anything solid."

"It wasn't fatal, right?"

"No. Gonna be a long time till he sees daylight, though—popped a lung and cracked or broke every rib on his right side."

"Lucky." Natasha did her best to make her voice sound nonchalant.

"You could say that. The real lucky part about it was his daughter, though—some three year-old kid who got in the way. According to the tapes, if Banner's arm was a couple inches lower, he would have snapped her neck clean in half."

Natasha bit her lip and drew in a shaky breath; she was starting to feel dizzy.

"So, you got anything to say, Romanoff?"

The woman gulped and clenched her hands into fists; even though this was probably the fourth time she had had to break the news to someone, it didn't seem to be getting any easier.

"I don't think I should be assigned to anymore missions, sir. At least not for a while."

Fury blinked, looking slightly taken aback for a moment. He quickly regained his composure. "I didn't take you for the dramatic type. All I need to hear is that you won't try and pull something like this again."

"I'm pregnant, Fury."

The director remained unfazed. "We have a protocol for this, Romanoff. If you're concerned about the costs, SHIELD will pay all of the—"

"It's not about that," Natasha snapped. "And according to the contract you had me sign, the 'protocol' states that I have the right to take whatever course of action I see fit should this situation arise. I'm going through with it."

Fury tightened his lips and crossed his arms.

"Is that so? Care to enlighten me as to what inspired this little change of heart?"

"No, I wouldn't. My business is my own, and I can share as much of my personal life with you as I want."

She was starting to sound like a teenager throwing a tantrum, but she didn't care. Maybe it was the hormones, but right now, she was on the verge of giving Fury a nice hook to the jaw.

The man eyed her for a moment, his expression unreadable; finally, he gave a slow nod and turned back to his desk.

"Fine. But you're going to have to get a SHIELD-administered physical and signature before you take any further action."

"SHIELD-administered? Come on, is that really—"

"Take this down to Kraskey at Medical," Fury interrupted, handing her a note he had scribbled down on a pad of legal paper. "She'll take care of the test. You have five hours to report back to me. See you then."

Natasha lamely took the note and stepped out of the room without responding. If she hadn't felt like some school kid getting a detention before, then she definitely did now.

00000000

"You're pregnant!"

"I know," Natasha growled through her teeth, rubbing a swollen red lump on the underside of her left forearm. "Please, just give me the damn piece of paper with your signature so I can leave."

"Oh, thank goodness," the nurse sighed. She jotted a few notes down and ripped the paper off its pad. "And here I thought you'd have to find out from me."

Natasha bit her lip and ran a hand over her face before taking the document and heading back up to Fury's office. She didn't know where on Earth SHIELD found this nurse, but judging from the way she conducted the test, it had probably been the first person on some random bench in Central Park. It had taken the woman about three different tries to get the needle into a vein to draw blood, leaving Natasha with dark, growing bruises up and down her arm.

"Here you go, Fury. Hot off the press," Natasha muttered as she bent down to slip the sheet of paper under her boss' door. He probably would not approve of her unprofessional and non-confrontational handling of the situation, but whatever; as of now, she was officially unable to be fired.

One of the few benefits of being a woman in the working world, she supposed.

On top of that, her stomach was making angry growling noises, and her head was starting to feel faint. During breakfast, she was so nervous that she could barely choke anything down—only one bowl of cornflakes at Steve's urging—and she had actually thrown most of it up before her visit to the nurse's office. Despite her slight figure, she had always been a pretty heavy eater, and now that she was eating for two, she was practically running Pepper—and all surrounding markets—out of house and home. Despite its questionable qualities, SHIELD cafeteria food was sounding pretty appetizing right about now.

Pulling her employee ID card out of her jean pocket, Natasha made her way to the crowded dining hall, grabbed a tray, and took her place in the back of the line. With a little luck, she'd be able to get through this dinner as quickly and with as little human contact as possible.

She felt someone tap her on the shoulder, and she looked up to see a woman gray uniform and hair net motioning at her to step forward. A strong scent of cooked meat and coffee suddenly hit Natasha, making her mouth water slightly; her stomach growled a little louder.

"Business dinner," she grumbled, keeping her eyes on the food in front of her. "And a medium coffee. No, large. And one of the apple cake slices."

No response. Natasha looked up to find the cafeteria woman gawking at her.

"I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

The woman shook her head rapidly. "Nope." She continued to stare.

"So are you going to continue ogling me or are you going to actually do your job and get me my food?"

"Yes, yes, of course, ma'am! I'm sorry, what did you want?"

"Business dinner. Large coffee. Apple cake. Need me to write it down, or you think you can handle it?"

"No, I got it!" the lady replied, apparently not catching Natasha's sarcasm. "Cream or sugar?"

"Both."

Never taking her eyes off Natasha, the employee spooned a portion of rice and chicken onto her plate before using a pair of tongs to scatter a few pieces of a pathetic-looking salad on the side.

"Sorry, you said apple cake, right?"

"Yes," Natasha said through gritted teeth.

The woman blushed and proceeded to punch a few buttons on her register.

"Seven twenty-five."

Natasha angrily thrust her card at the worker, who, after a few attempts, slid it through a slot and handed it back. Afterwards, she stood and continued her one-sided staring contest.

"Thanks," Natasha grumbled before she turned around to head to a secluded corner of the dining room. She would have to talk to Fury about the team's rapidly declining ability to hire decent employees.

She suddenly noticed that the room had quieted considerably since her arrival, and, to her shock, she began to feel the unsettling presence of curious eyes on her back. Her cheeks started to flush, but she remained focused on her targeted corner-table; thirty minutes of sub-par bliss and she could get the hell out of this monochrome joint.

A short man with acne scars stepped in front of her, making her nearly spill her drink.

"You shouldn't be drinking that stuff," he said in a nasally voice while she attempted to regain her balance. "It'll stunt the growth."

"I think I've done all the growing I'm ever gonna do, but thanks for the concern," she snapped, pushing him out of the way before he could make another comment. A group of women who had been chatting amiably hushed as she walked by; one leaned over and whispered something into her table mate's ear, who sat back and shook her head with a frown.

By the time Natasha actually found her seat, her stomach was churning so badly that she had nearly lost her appetite. Nearly. Her fork felt slippery in her hands, and when she picked up her cup, the liquid nearly sloshed over the side. The eyes on her hadn't gone away; if anything, the number had grown since she left her place in line. Natasha had made a career out of being invisible her whole life, and all this attention was making her feel self-conscious and, well…naked. She had a dreadful suspicion that she knew what this was about, but she hoped to God she was wrong. It had only been half an hour…surely news couldn't travel _that _fast, even in SHIELD…

She felt a hot breath down her neck, and she snapped around to come face-to-face with two girls who looked to be in their lower-twenties.

"Can I help you?" she barked. She had meant to sound threatening, but her voice came out a little shakier than intended. One of the girls looked down at her feet.

"You're Natasha Romanoff, right?" the other one said.

"Agent Romanoff, actually," she shot back. "What do you want?"

The girl looking at her feet recoiled a bit, but the peppier one seemed unfazed. "Well, some people were talking in the break room, and…I mean, I don't know if this is true, but…is it?"

"Is what true?" Natasha asked, though her stomach was already sinking.

"Are you pregnant? And keeping it?"

Natasha didn't answer; the whole room was watching now.

"I mean, that's awesome if you are! Like, a lot of people have talked before about how you've been pregnant but kept aborting it, but I think it's great that you're finally ready to, you know, take responsibility and everything!"

A mixture of rage and humiliation bubbled in Natasha's chest—the nerve of these girls…

She had definitely lost her appetite now.

"Can I touch your stomach?" the quiet one suddenly blurted.

Natasha sprung up and shoved the girl so hard that she fell back on a table and cracked one of the legs. A set of empty dishes clattered to the floor, their broken porcelain pieces scattering across the tiles.

The set of gaping employees readily scattered as Natasha made her way across the room; she thought she heard the girl shout something as she reached the door, but she didn't care enough to listen.

000000000

The ride home actually provided Natasha with a little bit of relief—at least on her crowded subway car she could blend in with the throng of other blissfully unaware New Yorkers—but all former anxiety quickly flooded back when she stepped through the door. As soon as she entered the building, she ran to the bathroom and turned the faucet to full blast, putting her head in her hands while she rested her elbows on the sink. Splitting her fingers apart, she peeked at her reflection in the mirror: her hair was in tangles, her eyes were bloodshot, and her face was even paler than normal due to lack of food.

_Can I touch your stomach… _how dare she ask that? Since when was it socially acceptable to walk up to someone you barely knew, someone miles above you in the ranks, and ask if you could feel them up? And she hadn't even started to show… had she?

Hesitantly, Natasha stood upright and removed her shirt. She ran a set of shaky fingers over her belly. To her dismay, she noted that all traces of her former six-pack were gone; all that was left was a pale expanse of flesh running from her bra to her waistband. She stepped back from the mirror and turned to the side. Closing her eyes, she put her hand on her chest cavity and let it slowly descend until it hit a groove on her lower stomach. Peeping through a cracked eyelid, she saw that her hand was resting on a small bump; not large, definitely not obvious to someone who wasn't looking, but undoubtedly a bump. She let it stay there for a few seconds longer before she removed it and picked up her shirt from the floor.

_Whatever. It was still rude,_ she thought as she exited the bathroom and made her way up to the roof. Clint had always said that when he was upset or needed to think, he'd go to the roof and the world would seem safer, even if only by a little. She was sure that it wouldn't have the same personal significance for her, but she was desperate. And at least it would get her as far away from humanity as was possible without stealing one of Stark's precious jets.

A cool breeze hit her face as soon as she stepped outside, and she breathed it in deeply. Despite the fact that it was only about eight-thirty, the sun had long ago disappeared over the horizon. The trees had already lost most of their leaves, meaning that a long, snowy New York winter was on its way. Natasha was used to the cold by now, though. She had grown up in Russia; all other winters seemed like child's play to her.

_Not that a blanket would hurt,_ she thought as she perched on the end of the ugly cement roof so that her feet dangled down off the edge. A sudden pang of hunger hit her, and she grabbed at her stomach and doubled over. It had been about twelve hours since she'd eaten anything; in her present condition, it felt more like two days.

"I can fix that," a voice sounded behind her.

Natasha gasped and nearly fell off the roof as she whipped around to see Clint standing several feet away with a large plate wrapped in foil.

"Dammit, Clint," she panted, clutching at her chest. "I forgot how quiet you could be."

He grinned guiltily. "Sorry; old habit, I guess." He walked towards the edge of the roof until he was standing next to her. He collapsed to the ground and folded his legs, resting his arms on his thighs.

"Why are you here?" She asked after she had finally managed to compose herself. Clint shrugged.

"Figured you might be hungry. I was right." He gently tore the foil off the plate to reveal a large stack of thin pancakes covered in jam. Fumbling around in his coat pocket, he pulled out a thermos and set it next to her.

"Beet soup. I know I can't make it like the Russians do, but I like to think I did a passable job. I figured you could use a little taste of childhood right now."

Natasha felt her eyes start to water; she didn't know if it was because Clint was actually talking to her or hormones or the fact that she was actually about to stuff her face full of food, but right now, she felt like wrapping him in a bear hug and composing a sonnet for him.

"Thanks, Clint, this is…wonderful. When did you make all of this?"

"Just now. Or the past three hours. I started right when I got home and finished like five minutes ago."

Natasha picked up the thermos and unscrewed the lid; screw spoons, she was just going to slurp it down right there. "Where were you?" she asked between gulps.

"SHIELD."

She coughed up a little of her soup. "Oh."

"Yeah. Listen, Natasha, I'm—"

"No, Clint, I should be apologizing. I'm sorry you had to find out like that; you should have been the first one I told. I didn't want you to get hurt, but I was just afraid that you'd, I don't know, judge me or something," she mumbled. "And really, I didn't mean for the others to find out so quickly, either—it just sort of…happened."

Clint snorted. "Yeah, believe me, they've been spending the past three weeks telling me the same thing. You know how stubborn I can be about admitting that I'm wrong." He flashed her a grin, but his expression quickly turned solemn. "But in all seriousness, Tasha, I am sorry. You're right, you should have told me, and it did suck to have to find out from a fat nurse straight out of Barney, but I had no right to deal with it by ignoring you. Banner's been telling me how hard this has all been on you, and with SHIELD in the picture now…"

Natasha shuddered. "You didn't tell them, did you?"

"Natasha, you know I didn't. I may have been angry, but I would never do that to you."

"I know, I know…it was probably that nurse."

Clint chewed his lip. "Yeah, probably. You want her fired? Or killed? I have resources, you know."

Natasha chuckled; it felt like the first time she had smiled in weeks. "We'll see, hotshot. Have your connections keep an eye on her, though."

He gave a mock salute. "Will do, ma'am."

The two sat in silence for a few minutes as Natasha ravenously wolfed down her pancakes. Finally Clint cleared his throat and moved his hand so that their pinkies were touching.

"So, we've got a baby on board. Have you thought of any names?"

"I'm thinking 'Human Infant Number 6.'"

"I'm thinking Clint Jr."

"I'm thinking no."

"Well, I've still got about seven months to change your mind."

Natasha interlaced her fingers with his. "You're gonna have to talk to whatever family decides to take this thing on, 'cause I don't really have a say in the matter."

She peered nervously at him out of the corner of her eye; he was looking off into the distance, a thoughtful look on his face. Finally, he gave a slow nod.

"Fair enough. I'll start working on my persuasive speech."

Suddenly, he took her face in his hands and smashed his mouth against hers. Natasha, who was still holding a jelly-covered pancake, gently dropped it back onto the plate (even though she and Clint were obviously about to make up, she saw no reason to sacrifice a perfectly good pastry,) and wove her fingers into his hair. She ran her hand along the back of his head until it collided with a large glob of jam she had apparently left in her wake, making her yelp and rip away from him

Clint looked at her sheepishly. "Sorry, I know it wasn't exactly romantic, but it wasn't _that _bad, was it?"

"No, no, I just got a lot of jam in your hair," she laughed, wiping her hand on her jeans. Tenderly, he raised a palm to his head and grimaced when it made contact with the sticky substance.

"Ew! What the hell, Romanoff, I didn't even _give _you that much!" He said as she started to laugh harder. "And quit laughing at me!"

"Yeah? Make me," she said, her eyes sparkling mischievously. Normally this kind of over-the-top flirting would have sickened her, but if it meant that she and Clint could get along again, she was willing to go full-on sorority girl.

"Okay, you asked for it, Romanoff." Clint flicked the remaining goo off to the side and pounced on Natasha, straddling her waist and using his free hands to tickle her stomach.

"Come on, Barton, you know I'm not ticklish," Natasha said as she squirmed under his hips. "It's been seven years! Give it up already!"

"Never. Everyone's got a ticklish spot, Nat."

"Yeah? Like you?" Natasha wriggled out from his grasp and poked him in the sides, eliciting a high-pitched squeal. Knowing that the moment of weakness would not last long, she sprung forward and pushed him in the chest so that he fell backwards against the pavement. With a laugh, she threw herself on top of him and pressed her nose against his.

"And you scream like a girl."

"Well you fight like a girl."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Clint cupped the back of her neck and the couple's lips closed the small gap separating them. Natasha snaked her arms around his back and squeezed him as close to her as she could. Clint imitated her, intertwining his legs with her own before running a hand through her hair and moving down to kiss her  
neck and shoulders.

"I love you, Tasha," he breathed into her ear.

Natasha felt a twinge of guilt in the back of her mind, and for a moment, she hesitated; how should she respond to that? Should she not say anything? Should she lie? Was it a lie in the first place?

Was it worth risking another argument right now?

"Yeah. Love you, too."

000000

When Natasha woke up, it was about twenty degrees colder and considerably darker; a bitter gust of wind hit her bare skin, causing purple goose bumps to prickle up and down her body. Shivering, she sat up and wrapped her arms around her torso. What time was it? And why the hell was it so cold?

Reaching towards her discarded pair of jeans lying a few feet to her left, Natasha fumbled around to pull her cell phone from its place in the back pocket.

3:24 am. That would explain why her back hurt so badly—she had just spent about six hours lying on a slab of cement.

And that would also explain why it was so cold. Natasha's teeth chattered as another blast of air whooshed past her back and blew her hair across her face; if she didn't get inside soon, the rest of the team would wake up in the morning to find nothing but a frozen Popsicle that was once Natasha Romanoff.

A snore sounded next to her, and she suddenly remembered the reason she was shivering to death on this God forsaken rooftop in the first place.

"Clint, wake up!" She whispered, taking him by the shoulder and gently shaking him.

Nothing. If anything, his snores only increased in volume.

"Clint, come on, it's time to go inside," she said a little louder. He turned onto his side and buried his face in the jacket that was acting as his makeshift pillow.

She took her shoe and whacked him on the arm. "Clint, seriously, if you don't get your ass inside I'm leaving you here!"

No response.

"Whatever. Let him freeze to death," she muttered to herself. He sure would have a kick in the morning, waking up naked and alone on the Avengers Tower rooftop with a hefty case of frostbite.

On the way through the tower, Natasha nearly tripped at least five times on discarded food containers and undergarments that covered the hallway of Thor's floor. When she got to her own room, she released a breath and un-wrinkled her nose; the phrase 'cleanliness is close to Godliness' apparently did not apply to Thor's hygienic habits.

The door slid open, but she didn't enter; she simply stood frozen in place in front of the threshold.

It wasn't that it didn't look tempting—she wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bed under a pile of blankets and sleep for the next eight hours.

_A _bed. Not _her _bed. For some reason she couldn't place, she didn't want to be alone right now. And she didn't want to have to have to spend the rest of the night in her lonely little room.

Without thinking, she turned around and started to walk. She didn't know where she was going, but she didn't care; she trusted her feet to lead her to where she needed to be. One elevator ride and two hallways later, she found herself knocking at an unmarked steel door two floors below her.

"Natasha?"

An unkempt Bruce Banner, clad in a pair of sweat shorts and simple purple t-shirt, stood in front of her, rubbing the back of his head and scrunching his face up to protect his eyes from the light. It was cute, almost, in an endearing sort of way.

"Natasha, is something wrong?" His voice was even more slurred than normal, so much so that Natasha actually had to lean in to understand what he was saying.

"No, no. Don't ask me why, and of course you can say no, but I was wondering…could I sleep here tonight? If it's okay with you?"

Bruce blinked, and for a moment, Natasha thought he was actually going to refuse and shut the door in her face. Finally, he removed his hand from his mass of tangled curls and took her hand.

"Of course, come in. It'll be like a slumber party."

A single queen-sized bed stood in the center of the room. An awkward heat crept into Natasha's cheeks.

"You can have the bed, if you want. I don't mind sleeping on the floor…"

Bruce shook his head and smiled. "Go ahead and take it. I like sleeping on the floor—makes me feel like I'm camping."

Natasha nodded gratefully, and she let go of Bruce's hand and fell onto the bed.

"So, you want to play truth or dare? Do each other's nails? Make popcorn and talk about the cute new guy at school?"

"Fuck off, Banner," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. Bruce chuckled and lay out a blanket on the floor.

"No need for vulgarity, Romanoff. I was just trying to get in the sleepover-mode."

The only response was a light snore. Bruce looked over to see that she was lying on her back, her arms down by her sides and her chest rising and falling with each breath. Shaking his head, the man walked over to her and draped a comforter over her sleeping form.

Hesitating, he knelt down on one knee and looked at her face. She seemed so peaceful, so much more innocent than she was in real life. Her lips were slightly parted, and her eyelids twitched every so often. He wondered what she was dreaming about—was it about a fight? Or a mission? She looked pretty calm, but maybe that's how assassins were supposed to dream. A single chunk of red hair was splayed over her left eye, and he gently brushed it back; once again, he couldn't stop himself from thinking about how beautiful she looked—angelic, even; it was such a stark contrast from the harsh presence that radiated from her in real life. Gently, he bent down and planted a soft kiss on her forehead.

"Goodnight, Natasha."

Thanks for reading (if you managed to stick through till the end!) Once again, please tell me what you thought!


	9. Chapter 9

_She was lying on a beach when the rain started. It was strange, actually-two seconds earlier, there hadn't been a cloud in the sky. The sun was mango-y orange, the type of color you'd see in one that was just about to set, yet it was blazing directly overhead; it shed a pinkish light on the beach and covered Natasha's bare skin with a comfortable heat. That was the second weird thing about the situation—Natasha was wearing a bikini. She hated bikinis; why should girls feel as if they have to bare their midriffs to the world in order to be accepted? They might as well be in their underwear, for Christ's sake. What was it but another ploy by horny old men to be able to ogle practically naked women without seeming like sex offenders? Then again, given her experiences with horny old men, she was probably biased. _

_She was relaxed, though, despite it all; her eyes were closed, and she could feel herself sinking deeper and deeper into the powdery white sand that blanketed the beach; in the distance, she could hear waves crashing into rocks on the shore. Then she felt a raindrop on her stomach. And another, and another. Before she knew it, a shower of freezing water was pelting her exposed skin. Her eyes popped open and she shot up from the sand, raising her arms over her head to shield herself from the onslaught of stinging raindrops. Her eyes widened further as she caught sight of her stomach, which had receded to its muscular and bump-less form. Weird occurrence number three: each drop had left a large red welt, slightly raised and oozing a little bit of a thick, greenish liquid. Natasha touched one; it hurt. A lot. _

_Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a shack standing in the middle of the beach, maybe twenty meters away. If she ran quickly, she may be able to get there before any more of those boils appeared. When she tried to get up, though, it was as if her legs were melded to the ground; it took all her strength to pull herself away from her resting place and trudge to the small shelter that seemed way farther than it did before. However, when she finally got there, she couldn't sit down; her knees locked, and her entire body felt like someone had jammed a pole through it and bolted her into the floor. _

"_I can fix that."_

_Natasha felt a heavy hand on her back, and she squinted as she prepared herself for the burning sting of the welts. Strangely, though, the pain didn't come; her body suddenly relaxed, and she turned around to see Bruce standing directly behind her. She glanced down at her stomach; to her dismay, the sores had multiplied._

"_Bruce, I need help," she yelled; she had to speak loudly to be heard over the crash of rain around the shack._

"_I know." His voice was gentle, but weirdly enough, she could hear him without a problem. "Let me handle it. I'm a doctor, remember?"_

_He placed his hand on her stomach so that his palm was directly over her belly button; an intense heat spread over her skin, and almost instantly the bumps deflated and returned to their normal pale color. She turned to face him and met his eyes; their noses were practically touching._

"_Thank you." A lock of red hair fell over her left eye; he brushed it back into place. _

"_No problem." He bent down and kissed her forehead. _

_Without a warning, Natasha lunged forward and kissed him as hard as she could, throwing one arm around his neck and the other across his back. He leaned into the kiss and let his other hand trail down her spine to the tip of her swimsuit bottom; she shuddered and pressed into him more._

_He smelled like soap with a hint of generic cologne; just like she had imagined._

_Imagined? _

Natasha's eyes shot open, and bolted upright when she didn't immediately recognize the room she was in as either hers or Clint's. When she saw Bruce lying on the ground, however, she breathed a sigh of relief and fell back onto the pillow. If she hadn't just subconsciously been locking lips with him, the sight of Bruce curled up on the floor would have been almost adorable: his hands were folded underneath his head, and his knees were pulled up into his chest. He looked like a kid on Christmas Eve waiting for Santa to come.

Sighing, Natasha placed a hand on her chest; her heart was still beating at seventy miles an hour, and her entire body felt sweaty. It was a dream…it was only a dream…

She needed a drink. She started to get up when she remembered that she couldn't—she was pregnant.

"_Banner, we need help!" _

_Bruce couldn't see where he was; the light was too strong for him to even open his eyes, but judging by the smells of formaldehyde and sanitizer wafting through the air, he was in some kind of hospital. _

"_Banner, get in here, we don't have a lot of time!" _

"_I can't see anything!" He frantically waved his hands in front of his face and hit what felt like an IV stand. It clattered to the ground, and he could hear shards of broken glass tinkling across the linoleum._

"_Just follow my voice!" Whose voice? It sounded like Clint's, but the constant squeaking of gurneys being wheeled around him was making it hard to tell._

_Bruce took a step towards the sound and gasped when his foot fell straight through the ground._

"_Banner, what do you think you're doing? You are to remain on the sidelines and in observation unless intervention is needed." _

_Bruce cringed as Nick Fury's voice pierced his left ear; he picked his other foot up and took another step forward. Once again, the floor crinkled easily under his weight. _

"_They need intervention!" _

_Another step. Another crash. _

"_STOP! You're just going to destroy everything!" _

_This one was completely unrecognizable—some woman standing off in the distance. He continued to stumble across the hallway until his head hit a wall with a solid _thump.

"_Bruce, get in! There might still be time!"_

_He heard a door open, and then, just as soon as the noise started, it stopped. Suddenly, a painful, screeching moan pierced the air, and out of surprise, or simply out of desperation to make the screaming stop, Bruce swung his arm full-speed towards the source of the noise. It connected with something small and warm, and a sickening crunch silenced the moaning. _

_The blinding light dimmed, and Bruce found himself face to face with Clint Barton. _

_Something wasn't right; Clint's head was much too low._

_Bruce's eyes scanned the room until they fell upon a sight that made his stomach lurch: a woman was lying on a bed, her arm hooked up to a set of blinking machines. She was pregnant, maybe eight and a half or nine months through; the humongous bulge of her stomach could be seen even through the hospital gown. _

_Then he saw the head._

_It was smashed, almost beyond recognition. Her jaw was bent at a weird angle, and blood coated her hair. A bone poked out of her neck, and from the looks of it, half an inch more and it would have snapped clean off. _

_He felt like throwing up. _

"_Clint, what the hell…who is—" he stretched his arm out to Clint. His arm…no, not his arm, the Other Guy's arm. It was thick and green and covered in blood._

"_You killed her." _

"_No, I swear, I didn't mean to—I couldn't have—"_

"_We couldn't save the baby."_

_It was Tony's voice; he was sitting in the corner and glaring at Bruce with his arms crossed._

"_You're a monster." _

_Natasha. Definitely Natasha. It was coming from the corpse, that disgusting body on the bed._

_His heart seemed to stop. He fell to his knees._

_No, no, no, please God, no…_

_If he looked carefully, a glimpse of orange could be seen through the drying blood on her head._

_He let out a bloodcurdling scream._

Bruce jerked awake and clutched at his heart, which was beating so fast that it almost hurt. Breathing heavily, he sat up on a shaky arm and put a fist to his forehead; it was sticky, and his bangs were clumped together with sweat.

_Natasha…_

The haziness of sleep disappearing, he jumped to his knees and twisted around so that he was facing the bed on which Natasha slept. He paused, his arm hovering over her torso for a moment, before cautiously pulling down her sheet and gently setting his palm on her lower stomach. He breathed a sigh of relief when he felt it rising and falling with each breath she took. Frowning, he traced a finger over the curve of the small bump that was forming on her abdomen; a few weeks and she'd actually start to show. He wondered if she'd noticed.

Natasha gave a small wine, and he pulled his arm back and fell to the floor with a loud _thump._ The woman shifted, but didn't wake up; turning to her side, she clutched her blanket and nestled deeper into her pillow. Bruce didn't know much about Natasha's sleeping habits, but if he had to guess, she seemed restless tonight. Then again, maybe professional spies weren't really used to completely clocking out each night at bed time.

Bruce shuddered and pulled his knees up to his chest; he could still see that body, that disgusting corpse that he created, as if it were right in front of him. It was just a dream, but still, it was possible…

No, it wasn't. That wasn't him. He couldn't, wouldn't do that to Natasha.

_But you almost did. _

"Shut up, please," Bruce muttered, putting his palms over his ears. If Natasha were to wake up right now, she'd think he'd gone crazy, rocking back and forth with his knees to his chest and muttering to himself like a patient in a mental ward. It was true, though; he could easily do that to Natasha. And he would have if it weren't for Thor—if he thought hard enough, he could still remember raising his hand as if to strike her, that terrified look on her face that he'd only seen on those on the brink of death. It was hazy, but he could remember.

Strangely enough, though, he couldn't remember what it was like to be normal, to _not _be the Hulk. He couldn't remember what it was like to not be constantly walking on eggshells, to not have to worry every single second about what could happen if you were to lose control, to not have to live with the fear and knowledge that you could kill all those you held dearest to you with a flick of the wrist. A single swipe of his arm, and Natasha's skull would have been smashed, just like it had been in his dream.

Like that little girl's could have been.

Bruce let out a muffled sob and rubbed his eyes. He needed a drink.

"_Am I too late?"_

_Clint's shoes made a screeching noise as they skidded across the linoleum floor of what seemed to be some kind of hospital. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have noticed that there was not a single soul in the hallway—strange for any type of building in the middle of New York—except for Tony, who was standing outside a metal door marked 'MATERNITY.' _

_Oddly enough, Tony remained silent; stepping to the side, he jerked a thumb at the entryway, which slid open to reveal a long tunnel that stretched out into darkness._

"_What the hell, man, you think I can see in that? Give me a flashlight or something."_

_When he turned around, though, Tony had disappeared; the hallways were so quiet that Clint could hear his heartbeat._

_Suddenly, Clint felt himself being thrust face-first by some invisible source into the passageway, and before he could even get up from the ground, the door had slammed shut. _

"_Clint, are you there?" The voice was distant and echoing, but he could faintly recognize it as Bruce's. "Clint, could you come here?"_

"_I can't see a damn thing in this place!"_

"_Just follow my voice!"_

_Cautiously, the archer pushed himself up from the floor and took a careful step forward, grunting when his toe hit something pointed and hard. _

"_Clint, get in here, we've got something to tell you!"_

"_I'm trying!" He continued to stumble blindly through the darkness—literally. He couldn't get more than a meter or two without his foot smashing one of the rocks jutting from the ground. _

'_Jesus Christ, does this thing never end?' He thought to himself after a particularly jagged rock sliced through the front of his shoe and cut his toe. No sooner had the thought left his brain, though, that the area in front of him exploded in a bright light, and when his eyes adjusted, he found himself in a small but comfortable hospital room containing two of his teammates. Natasha, who was sitting up on a gurney, held a motionless bundle covered in a red blanket. Bruce stood next to her, a hand on one of her shoulders. _

_A grin spread on his face, and he moved forward to the pair, extending his hands as if to take the small pile from Natasha's arms. Bruce suddenly growled and puffed out his chest while Natasha shrunk back from his reach; even the child that lay within the sheets seemed to withdraw more into the new mother's embrace. The smile disappeared from Clint's lips, and his arms fell limply to his sides._

"_What's wrong?"_

"_Come on, Clint; you really think I'd trust you with my kid? After the way you treated me? Then again, maybe you'd be better with it than me—after all, I'm just a coward who likes to sleep around, right?"_

_His breath caught in his throat. "Tash, please, you know I didn't mean that."_

"_Really? 'Cause I don't recall hearing an apology." Natasha's arms were tightening around the bundle, which was now squirming in her grasp._

"_Please, Natasha, I'm so—"_

"_It's too late, Barton." Bruce was talking now; his hand had returned to its place on Natasha's left shoulder. "Just leave."_

"_I can't leave, it's my kid!"_

"Your_ kid?!" Natasha and Bruce laughed in unison, and Clint swore he could hear a tiny chuckle coming from whatever lay inside the blankets. "Why would we let you touch this kid? You never supported Natasha—you treated her like dirt, never even tried to understand her, and then you vanished when she needed you most. She doesn't love you, Barton—she barely even likes you. What makes you think she would ever want to have a family with you?"_

_Clint's stomach dropped when the ground beneath him started to tremble; he grabbed onto a nearby monitor stand to keep his balance._

"_Tasha, please," he choked, his knees knocking together as the shaking increased. "Please, tell him it's not true—tell him you love me."_

_A wicked smile grew on Natasha's face, and she removed an arm from the child to join hands with Bruce. "Are you really stupid enough to think that I would want to raise this kid with you? You're nothing to me, Barton, a nobody—you started out that way, and that's how you'll end up. You think this team needs you? You think it would make a difference if you were gone? You better get your head out of the clouds, bird boy, before you hurt yourself like you hurt me."_

_A heavy wind was starting to roar outside the hospital windows, and before long, a sickening crack sounded above him. Tears were running down his face, and in one last desperate attempt to make peace, Clint raised his hand towards his partner._

"_Natasha, honey, please forgive me—"_

_Bruce stepped forward, grabbed him by the wrist, and yanked him closer so that their chests were touching._

"_She said no, Barton, or are your hearing aids not on? Get out."_

_A sharp pain shot through his body, and then the world went black._

Clint Barton awoke to a sharp wind stinging his eyes, and for a minute, he thought he was still in the dream. It didn't take him long to realize that he wasn't in a hospital being carried away by some tornado—he was just naked on a roof with only a light jacket draped haphazardly across his waist to protect him from the cold. He let out a shaky breath before turning to look for the woman who had been lying next to him, but all he found was an empty space occupied only by what looked to be one of Natasha's discarded pieces of clothing. The uneasiness from the dream crept back into his stomach, and he dragged his hand along the spot where his partner had been not three hours ago. It was just a coincidence, right? Having a dream about your girlfriend disowning you and waking up to see that she was nowhere to be found? He shivered as another breeze whistled past his ears. It _was _cold out…

Still, though, the whole experience didn't make him feel entirely confident about his and Natasha's relationship. Even before the whole fiasco at the hospital, the distance was there—he had known his partner long enough to be able to figure out how she acted when she was uncomfortable. When was the last time she had given him a kiss, a meaningful touch, even a smile? And tonight, when she told him she loved him…was there hesitation in her voice? He didn't know; he couldn't remember—the hormones had clouded his mind too much.

He gave a sigh as he lay back onto the pavement—when he had been in the circus, he had never had a bed; sleeping on the ground was almost second-nature to him. Natasha's imaginary voice still rang through his subconscious…

_You're nothing to me, Barton, a nobody…you think the team would even notice if you were gone? _

Clint felt the foreign sting of tears beginning to well in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. She was right…well, _dream _Natasha was right. He really had been a nobody before he came to SHIELD—a kid born into a low-class, badly-educated family with a punk for a brother and whose days consisted of shoveling animal waste out of boxcars. And then he picked up the bow and arrow thing, which was cute for a while, even kind of cool at some points. And he was good at it. Really damn good. For the first time in his life, he had felt special, like someone who stood out from the crowd. And then Fury came along with his gadgets and trench coat and eye patch and picked him—Clint Barton, of all people—to join one of the greatest teams of elite super spies that had ever existed. And he said yes—how could he have not? He was going to become a secret agent, for crying out loud. Sure, people poked fun at him for the whole "knight in shining armor" thing, especially after he recruited Natasha, but no one dared legitimately insult him to his face. He was dangerous, well-trained, could pierce your coronary from half a mile away; and people respected that.

But the Avengers provided him with a healthy dose of reality. Tony, one of the most brilliant men on the planet; Steve, the legendary super soldier, and Thor, an actual _god…_ Clint couldn't even try to compete. Honestly, when you're watching a seven foot-tall ball of muscles who's also your teammate destroy a five-ton mechanical alien with a fist, the whole Robin Hood thing feels kind of pathetic. _Would _they notice if he weren't there? Would it make a goddamn difference if he had never been part of the team in the first place? Would it make a difference if he were never even born?

Biting his lip, he covered his eyes with his hands and sat up, removing his sweater from his waist and pulling it over his head as he did so. He needed a drink.

0000000

Clint grimaced as the sour liquid slid down his throat, leaving a stinging burn to linger on the inside of his mouth. He hesitated for a moment before he reached back towards the half-empty bottle and poured another helping into one of Stark's overpriced shot glasses. The alcohol sloshed over the side onto his fingers, and he wiped them on his jeans; Natasha had been trying for about six years to make him into the vodka fanatic that she was, but he had a feeling that no matter how many shots he managed to choke down, he would never understand the appeal of voluntarily consuming a liquid that made your insides feel like they were on fire. Unfortunately, the only other drink of choice in the bar was whiskey, which was possibly the one alcohol that somehow tasted worse than vodka.

Taking a deep breath, Clint pinched his nose and gulped his portion down, trying to shoot it straight back into his throat so as to use as few taste buds as possible. He swallowed, slammed the shot glass onto the oak table top and let out a pained groan; God, that stuff was vile.

"Sorry, didn't know this was taken."

Clint gasped and whipped around to see Bruce standing at the foot of the stairs, his right hand fumbling to straighten out his glasses. "Mind if I join you?"

"No…no, of course not," Clint said, trying to sound nonchalant in an attempt to regain his composure. For someone who wavered between a 200-pound man and a 700-pound beast, Bruce walked really damn quietly.

"I'm not crashing the party or anything, am I?"

"Yeah—me, myself, and I were having a great time enjoying the beginning stages of alcoholism."

Bruce snorted and reached to the top shelf of the bar to retrieve an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's. Clint wrinkled his nose and shuddered.

"Never took you as a whiskey man. Actually, I never took you as a drinking man."

Bruce smiled guiltily as he struggled to break the seal of the black twist-on cap. "Alcoholic tendencies do run in the family, but I've been known to sneak a sip or two when the occasion calls for it."

"Yeah? And what's the occasion tonight?"

"Sleeping troubles." A sharp cracking sound was made as Bruce finally succeeded in tearing off the lid; he tossed it to the side and took a deep swig from the bottle. "And bad dreams."

"I'll drink to that," Clint said, raising his cup towards the man opposite him. The glasses clinked, and a silence settled between them as they threw back their respective liquids and let them seep into their blood streams.

"Round two?" Bruce finally asked.

"Nah, round four for me. Feel free to keep at it, though," said Clint sluggishly; the effects of the alcohol were finally starting to kick in, and he felt his eyelids start to droop with fatigue. Bruce shrugged and took another gulp from the dark brown bottle.

"Have you seen Natasha?" Clint blurted suddenly. There was a long pause.

"No, why?" Clint thought he saw Bruce shift uncomfortably in his spot, but then again, it could have just been an alcohol-induced delusion. Clint shrugged, trying to act nonchalant.

"Dunno, just wondering." The marksman tapped his fingers impatiently on the laminated countertop while Bruce continued to sip at his beverage. "Banner—Bruce—could I ask you something?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows, taking the bottleneck away from his lips. "Yeah…yeah, go ahead."

Clint took a deep breath and closed his fist around his shot glass. "You and Nat…you're good friends, right?"

Another pause. Bruce cleared his throat nervously. "Well, yeah, we're all good friends here."

"But you two especially? You'd say you guys are pretty tight?"

This time, Bruce definitely shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose, yes, we've grown closer."

"But you don't think…God, I'm gonna sound like an idiot…there's nothing…_more_…than that, right?"

Bruce's heart was beating so fast that he was afraid Clint could hear it. He gripped his bottle tighter so that it wouldn't slip out of his now very sweaty hand.

_Just say no, Bruce, just say no…that's the truth, isn't it?_

"Why would you think that?"

He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. It wasn't a direct denial, but somehow, Bruce couldn't bring himself to say anything else. With a little luck, his shaky intonation wouldn't give him away.

In his semi-drunken state, though, Clint wasn't paying too much attention to intonation. "I dunno, she's just been distant lately. And when she's not by herself, she's with you. I just…I just get the feeling that you're kind of her go-to guy when she needs something. And that guy used to be me."

"Well, it's kind of hard to be someone's constant when you up and disappear for two weeks." Bruce wasn't normally so upfront, but, like Clint, the whiskey was starting to get to his brain. He should probably stop before he said something that he'd really regret.

_Like how he got butterflies in his stomach whenever Natasha's hand accidentally brushed his. _

Bruce slammed the bottle down and shook his head. He had to stop this…it wasn't healthy, and moreover, it just wasn't true. He was at least twenty years her senior, and on top of that, she was with Clint.

Though from the sounds of it, that might not last too long. And they'd never really been official anyway.

When Clint looked up, there were tears in his eyes. "She lied to me! She's my best friend and partner and she let me find out she was pregnant from some goddamn nurse! How do you think that made _me _feel? Does anyone ever think about that on this team? Why am I always the bad guy?"

Bruce felt his stomach start to churn. "You know, given your history with the subject, I wouldn't be so quick as to make yourself the victim. At least, that's what she told me," he added when Clint stiffened and threw a bone-chilling glare in his direction. After a moment, though, his shoulders sagged, and he leaned forward so that his chin was resting on his closed fists.

"Tash told you about that, huh?" The tone in his voice was shameful, almost defeated, and Bruce felt some of his anger start to dissolve into sympathy for the pathetic-looking man.

"Not everything, but enough to make me get the picture. She'd never purposely do anything to hurt you, Clint, and she wouldn't tell me your secrets—she's far too loyal for that."

Clint bit his lip and ran a finger around the rim of his shot glass. "She is, isn't she? You know, everyone thinks of her as this unpredictable narcissist who's only out for herself and could turn at any minute, but she's actually the most loyal woman I've ever met. I really think she'd sooner die than betray SHIELD or her friends or me."

Bruce said nothing, but nodded slowly and took a seat on the stool next to Clint. The men sat in silence for a few minutes while Bruce continued to sip at his beverage.

"She was that scared of me, huh?"

"Terrified." When Clint bit his lip again, he scooted closer and put a hand on the archer's shoulder. "Not of you, exactly, but of your judgment. It's actually kind of an honor—it means she really cares about you. If it were just anybody, she probably wouldn't have given a damn. You know Natasha; she must really think you're something if she's willing to get this upset over someone's opinion." Bruce hoped Clint wouldn't notice the hint of jealousy in his voice.

"That still doesn't make me feel any better."

For a moment, Clint stared off into the distance, a glazed-over look in his eye. Finally, he spoke.

"Did you know I knocked a girl up once? Back when I was about 19? What the hell, of course you don't know. Nobody knows—not even Natasha. It was back when I was in the circus. I was just a kid back then; I thought I could do whatever I wanted and nothing would ever come back to bite me in the ass. Everybody kind of thinks they're invincible at that age, you know?"

Bruce kept silent; from the looks of it, Clint was lost in his own little world of memories, unaware of what he was saying or who he was saying it to. A part of him felt he should say something, that this was some kind of intrusion of privacy, but a larger—and much more drunken—part wanted him to keep going. Clint was a quiet man by nature—it was rare that such a confession came from the likes of him so willingly.

"Marissa—Marissa Kobalskiy. Or Kovarskiy. Something like that; she was Polish. She was twenty-one and tall and blonde and was one of the ring-master's assistants. You know, one of those girls who walks around in those short skirts and leotards and holds up signs and looks sexy. Anyway, one day she came up to me and told me that she was pregnant. And that it was mine, and that she thought it would be best if we got married." Clint started to laugh, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly. "God, she was an awful girl. Dumb and boring and self-centered and pretty much everything you wouldn't want in a wife. The polar opposite of Nat. But I was shallow back then, and so young. I'd bang pretty much anything with long legs and a shit-ton of makeup. It feels like so long ago, but I can remember everything: I was laying down hay in the horses' yard and she came up to me with that stupid look on her face and told me she was late. I didn't even know what she meant at first—I had to ask her what she was late _for _before I figured out what she was talking about." Clint chuckled again, this time more softly.

"What did you do?" Bruce interrupted. This whole story was coming as a complete revelation. He knew nothing of Clint's past—the guy barely even talked to him, yet here he was, spilling his guts in the middle of the night to a man whose bed was currently occupied by the love of his life.

Talk about a soap opera plot.

Clint's face fell, and his whole body seemed to sag. "I made her get an abortion. She didn't want to, but I…well, I threatened her. Not physically, but enough to scare her out of keeping it. I told her that my parents worked for the mafia, that I had powerful sources, yada yada yada." He looked up at Bruce, a pleading glint in his eyes. "You gotta understand, I was young. I was young and stupid and reckless. Which can be a very powerful combination." He turned back to face the bar and rubbed his temples.

"There's not a day that goes by where I don't think about what I did. It's not that I think life would have turned out for the better if I had married Marissa—hell, I'm glad I didn't. If I had, I wouldn't have gotten recruited by SHIELD or met Tasha. Or any of you, for that matter. It's just that…when I think of what I did to that poor twenty-one year-old girl, and how I indirectly caused the death of an innocent kid…it becomes hard to live with myself."

"You know, there are arguments as to whether or not an embryo at that stage is considered a child," Bruce countered.

"Hold up there, Banner—let's not get debate-team on this. I didn't mean to start an argument, and you don't need to try and make me feel better. I know all the statistics and arguments and whatnot, but sometimes I just think, if that kid had lived, what would he or she have been like? Would it look like me? Would it have the same interests as me? Was it really worth it to end its life just to save face?"

"You know, just because you think that way doesn't mean everyone else does. Natasha should be able to make her own decisions without having to worry about getting treated any worse for them. Especially by you."

Clint whipped back around so that he was facing Bruce, his mouth twisted into a grimace. "Listen, Bruce, I know—and I feel bad. But whenever I try to apologize to her I'm just overcome by guilt from whatever grief I caused to Marissa and her kid—_my _kid."

"_But Natasha's not having your kid." _A strange expression that Bruce could not place washed over Clint's face, but it quickly disappeared and was replaced with a stone-cold glare. "Clint, I understand, you feel guilty—that's normal. And I wish I could help, I really do. But do you think it's fair to make Natasha take the brunt for your wrongdoings and then punish her when she doesn't want to take it again?"

"Of course I don't." Clint's voice was so quiet that Bruce had to practically put his ear to the other man's mouth; if he leaned anymore he would fall right out of his chair. "I guess I'm just one big lifetime of mistakes, huh?"

Bruce fell back into his seat and rustled his hair, not knowing whether to feel exasperated with the angsty self-pity or sympathetic towards the man who clearly didn't think much of himself.

"Come on, Clint, don't be—"

"I'm going to bed," Clint interjected, bolting up and nearly knocking over his chair. "Have a nice night, Bruce."

Bruce turned and watched the marksman make his way over to the elevator, a slight stumble in his step. Sighing, he twisted the cap back onto the bottle and slid it down the counter.

"Yeah. You, too."


	10. Chapter 10

When Natasha bolted up in bed a second time, it was not due to the imagined scent of Bruce's cologne in her nose, but rather to an urgent pressure building up in her stomach and forcing its way up her throat.

Truth be told, Natasha wasn't really sure what happened next; it could only be characterized by a flurry of confused and blurry images and a mass of tangled limbs. In her panic to get to the bathroom as quickly as her body would let her, Natasha flung herself ungracefully out of the bed and landed directly on top of a warm, huddled mass resting on the floor next to her. To her surprise, the pile not only stirred, but let out a choked, painful groan, drawing a startled scream from the redhead. Suddenly, a solid surface rose from the floor and smacked her directly in the center of her forehead, causing her to plummet back to the ground so that she was lying on her back with her slender legs half-straddling whatever had decided to make itself comfortable next to her bed. Grimacing, she squeezed her eyes shut; she was almost positive she had seen a few cartoonish stars circle her head before it hit the ground.

"Natasha…?" A slurred voice sounded from the offending lump. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

_Oh, right, Bruce. I keep forgetting. _Sighing, the woman raised her hand to her forehead; to her disgust, a tender lump was starting to swell on her normally flawless skin.

"Natasha? Natasha, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Calm down, Banner, I've taken hits worse than this in my day." With a groan, she propped herself up so that she was sitting against the wall. "Jesus Christ, what the hell? Is your skull made out of lead? Is that why you always walk like a hunchback—because your goddamn head is too heavy to—"

A retch interrupted her speech, and she slapped her hand over her mouth: oh, yeah. Bathroom.

Nearly kicking the man in the face, Natasha sprung from her position on the floor and made it to the toilet just in time to empty the entire contents of her stomach into the pristine white bowl. Drawing in a shaky breath, she crossed her arms on the seat and rested her forehead on them; God, she hated this.

She heard a timid knock echo on the wall, and Bruce cleared his throat. "Natasha? You all right in there?"

"Peachy," Natasha growled before spitting a glob of sour saliva into the water.

Peeking around the frame of the door, Bruce gave a grimace at the image of Natasha huddled and shivering over the toilet. He began to move toward her when she stirred and groaned.

"You switched sides," her muffled voice whined from its position between her arms.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The bed, Banner. You switched sides of the bed. You were on the left when we went to sleep. What the hell were you doing up?"

The man felt an uneasy anxiety swell in his stomach, but he gulped and tried to look unfazed. "Bad dreams," he said. Hopefully she wouldn't ask questions. "You need anything?"

"Yeah—a bloody Mary."

Bruce noticed that a stray lock of red hair had slipped from its place and become plastered onto her forehead, and he got the sudden urge to reach forward and brush it away. However, as he had a feeling that she might permanently crush his wrist if he touched her, he opted for a different, less painful approach to helping calm her down.

"I'll go get your toothbrush," he said quickly, and slid out the door before she could protest.

When he returned, Natasha was no longer gripping the toilet for dear life, but now crouched near the tub with her legs pulled to her chest and her face buried in her knees. It looked so pathetic that it made Bruce wonder if he should just sneak away and give her a little privacy. Before he could tip-toe out, however, Natasha's head snapped up and she stared wearily at the object in his hand.

"You planning on giving that to me, or are you just gonna stand there and let it air out?"

"Someone's not a morning person," Bruce grumbled, reaching forward to give Natasha what she wanted and get the hell out of there. Their fingers brushed momentarily, and Bruce swore he saw Natasha blush before whipping her hand back and hoisting herself up onto the edge of the tub.

"You got toothpaste?" Her voice was a little gentler now, but he was sure it would take her a while to cool down completely.

"Yeah…sure." Bruce fumbled around in his medicine cabinet and produced a half-used red and white tube. "Well, I'll get out of your way now."

"No, don't go!" Bruce turned around and raised an eyebrow at Natasha, who cleared her throat and blushed even harder. "I mean, you don't get off that easy, Banner. You owe me some company." She pointed to the growing bruise on her forehead.

He chuckled. "Whatever you say." With a groan, he eased into a sitting position on the floor while Natasha squeezed a generous strip of white paste onto her toothbrush.

The sound of bristles scraping teeth filled the room as Natasha scrubbed fervently.

"Sho wha'wash you' dream abou'?"

Bruce blinked. "What?"

Natasha spat into the sink and glared at him. "What was your dream about?" She said angrily, enunciating each syllable with unnecessary exaggeration. Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh you know, the usual bad dream stuff, I guess. Zombies, clowns, inlaws…" Bruce began to feel the nauseating anxiety return to the pit of his stomach.

Natasha took a mouth-full of water before gargling it in the back of her throat and swallowing it. "Bullshit. I know a lie when I hear one. Come on, Banner, entertain me—what could have been so intense that it scared the great Hulk into retreat?"

"So my pain is amusing to you, is that it?" With a smirk, Natasha placed her toothbrush on the edge of the sink and walked to the tub. Noiselessly, she slid down to the ground so that she sat cross-legged a few inches from Bruce. "Not giving up, huh?"

"Nope. Spill."

Bruce sighed and ran a hand through his sleep-disheveled hair. "I dreamt that one of my…patients...was sick and I couldn't save her in time." During his years of living on the lam, he had learned the delicate art of keeping the details just vague enough so that the opposite party wouldn't get suspicious or ask questions. He saw no reason to tell Natasha that the patient was the redhead herself.

"What of?"

"Um, blood loss," he said quickly. Close enough.

"Hm. That's tough." Natasha was casually glancing over her nails in an attempt to feign disinterest; however, Bruce could sense a hint of concern buried beneath her stoic voice. "Do you have these types of dreams often?"

"Er, often enough." _Not that Natasha had ever been a part of them. _Bruce sensed that she would not let the conversation end there, so he cleared his throat and continued. "While I was in India, I dealt with extremely ill people—people who would have been considered way beyond the point of recovery. I saved a few, but a lot of them passed away—a lot more than I would have liked." There was silence between them. "A good deal were children."

Natasha's right hand slowly crept up to rest on the tiny bulge at the base of her stomach, and Bruce wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

"I don't blame myself; I know that I did my best with the resources I had available, and that without me even more people would've died. But still, after you've poured your soul into trying to cure the fiftieth patient of the week only to have it all come to naught, it gets hard to console yourself, you know?"

Natasha's hand fell from her stomach so that it rested limply on the tile floor, her fingers splayed apart loosely on the tiles. "Yeah, I get it," she said absently, her eyes strangely fixated on a dark stain on her sleep shorts. "I mean, I killed people for a living. I still do sometimes. And if I'm going to be completely honest, there's still a part of me that truly does believe that there are people whose lives _need _to end in order to save those of thousands of others. I used to say to Clint that sometimes, killing wasn't murder…but not killing could be." She gave a light short and shook her head. "He always said it scared him when I talked like that, so I stopped. But I still think it's true. Some of the time, at least. Since SHIELD, I haven't my victims haven't been…well, let's just say that they wouldn't have made it onto TIME's _Most Influential People _list. But, still, I do have to cope with the fact that I am a murderer, no matter how you justify or word it. And sometimes I ask myself, what if…what if some of my targets could have been reasoned with? Granted, most of them were bloodthirsty murderers who would have shot a kid on the way home from church if it meant his advancement in the business, but still…I was a part of that world at one point; what made Clint decide that I was 'worth saving?' What made me any different from them?"

Bruce turned to look at her: Natasha was biting her bottom lip so hard that it almost blended in with the porcelain skin of her face, and her right hand was now clenched into a fist. "Can I ask you something, Natasha?" He asked softly. "Would you have ever shot a kid?"

"No, of course not. I don't kill children. Or the elderly. I never have." Her response was steady and immediate, and her eyes adopted an expression of such strong resolution that it made Bruce's own hand shoot out to rest lightly on top of hers.

"And you don't think Clint could see that as soon as he started observing you? You're different, Natasha, special—you're not like any of the other bad guys you've dealt with. You're without a doubt one of the most moral, strong, justice-driven women I've ever met—it just…took a little while for it to come to light."

For a second, Bruce wasn't even sure if Natasha was listening; her eyes were focused on his large hand covering her petite one, a faraway, wistful smile gracing her features. Slowly, as if by their own will, her fingers unfurled and intertwined themselves with his, making Bruce's breath hitch in his throat. Her palm was rough, rougher than most women's, but for some reason, it seemed right—fitting, even. Her thumbnail, which was un-manicured but well-kept, pressed lightly into his flesh, sending small shivers up his spine. His heart increased speed when Natasha leaned to rest her head on his shoulder, her loose hairs brushing the side of his neck. He could catch the light scent of a simple floral shampoo, and he gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead; it was all he could do to keep himself from turning and burying his face in her hair.

"We should get breakfast!" Bruce blurted suddenly. Actually, he didn't blurt it so much as scream it so loudly that it caused Natasha's whole body to give a spastic jump, her head jerking up and whacking him in the chin.

"OW, that hurt a lot more than it should have!" Bruce said as he rubbed his throbbing chin. Natasha, who appeared to be busy leaving some kind of out-of-body trance, shook her head and stared at him in surprise.

"Well, now we're even. Geez, you startled me. Never knew Tony the Tiger tickled your fancy so much."

Bruce simply blushed and continued to stroke his chin.

"So are we going?"

"Where?"

"Breakfast…?"

"Oh…yeah. You go, I'll catch up."

"But you were the one who wanted to—"

"Yeah. You know, I'm actually not very hungry. Go on, I'll see you down there."

"Men," Natasha muttered with an exasperated sigh as she pushed herself up from the floor and padded silently to the bathroom's exit. She paused for a moment, and then, with her back still turned, she blurted, "Oh, and Bruce? I'm sorry I insulted your posture. I think it's kind of…cute how you hunch when you walk."

After the door whooshed shut, Bruce absentmindedly touched his hand, which had just moments ago been clutching Natasha's, to his shoulder. The warmth from the woman's head was now long gone, but if he closed his eyes he could kind of feel the ghost of its light pressure resting in the crook of his neck.

That hadn't lasted nearly as long as it should have.

00000

_Dear God, I am never drinking again. _

Clint moaned and clutched his aching head; he hadn't even opened his eyes and already he was feeling the overwhelming onslaught of one hell of a hangover. After Banner had left, he decided to go ahead and finish the bottle—Tony was going to notice either way—and soon after lost any semblance of coherence. He didn't even remember getting to his room; in fact, there was about a fifty percent chance he was laying on the ground of one of Stark's seven garages right now.

Keeping his eyes closed, he held his breath and tried to gauge the time judging by the sounds of his surroundings: the tower itself was quiet, but the hums and honks of cars crawling through the streets below told him that it was about ten in the morning, maybe a little earlier. Curling into a fetal position in an attempt to keep last night's vodka bath inside his stomach, Clint cracked his eyes open. After blinking a few times to clear his vision of any unwanted dizziness, he found himself face to face with the culprit of his current condition: an empty bottle of vodka, resting on its side against the metal leg of one of Stark's designer bar stools. With a pang of shame, Clint realized that he had barely even made it three feet from the counter until he collapsed from either tiredness or drunkenness—in his case, probably both. Oh, well. It was better than the garage, he supposed.

Suddenly, a set of beeping sounds was heard from the entryway, and Clint lifted his head to see Natasha sauntering in with a steaming coffee mug and a plate of something that looked like pancakes. However, in their current state, it was kind of hard to tell—they appeared to be covered in a thick layer of light pink goo and a generous heap of sprinkles. Before she could spot him lying face first on the ground (he wasn't sure he was ready for the embarrassment and long explanation it would require,) he belly-crawled across the room to the couch, where he hauled himself up to the cushions in a half-sitting, half-lying position.

"Hey, Clint," she said casually, giving him a sly smile before sitting down next to him. Nodding at her, Clint cautiously pressed his left leg against her right one and was happily relieved when she not only didn't jerk away as she had that night in the jet with him, but reached over and gave his hand a small squeeze before starting in on her breakfast. He would have loved to knock the plate out of her hands and start right in on a repeat of last night's rooftop affair, but as Natasha was not known to react kindly to having her meals interrupted, he settled for relishing the feeling of her smooth skin against his.

He had never told her this before, but in his opinion, Natasha was at her most beautiful in the morning, right after waking up. Her hair was messy but not tangled, as if someone had ruffled it up and she had forgotten to smooth it back down. Her face's natural beauty never failed to astound him; sometimes, there was a smudge of mascara underneath her eye that she hadn't quite washed off the night before, and for some reason, Clint found it undeniably sexy. Her torso was usually covered by a simple, not-quite-ragged sweater, but her legs were bare, a pair of sleep shorts hugging the generous curves of her hips. Clint loved seeing Natasha's legs; they were kind of short, not exactly stick-thin, but there was something elegant about the light definition of muscles that graced her calves and thighs. Natasha rarely wore shorts, though, so mornings were really his only time to soak it all in.

Natasha cleared her throat, and Clint realized that he was very obviously staring, if not ogling her.

Suddenly, a large glop of gooey pastry fell off of Natasha's fork and onto Clint's knee; without any hesitation, she reached over, picked it lazily from his skin, and sucked her finger clean, her mouth making a loud suction-y noise.

Wow. Way to ruin the effect, Nat.

"You're disgusting. If only our enemies could see the sultry Black Widow now."

Natasha just grunted and swatted at him playfully.

"What the hell are you eating, anyway?"

She turned and gave him a look that seemed to pretty clearly communicate that she thought _he _was the crazy one for asking. "Pancakes. What does it look like?"

"It looks like Barney threw up onto your plate."

"Ha-ha. I was in the mood for frosting. Deal with it."

"So the cravings have set in, huh? Next thing I know you'll be waking me up at midnight to run out and make you a pickle-and-ice cream sundae."

Normally, Natasha would have replied with some witty piece of banter to keep the conversation in play, but as her mouth was currently filled beyond its normal limits, she merely looked at him and grunted in disgust.

Narrowing his eyes, Clint reached forward and brushed a chunk of red bangs away from his partner's forehead, revealing the now fully-swollen bruise that Bruce's skull had dealt her this morning. Natasha quickly snapped her head from his touch and pressed her hair back into place.

"It's nothing. Bumped into the door on the way back to my room last night," she said hurriedly. Clint, obviously not buying the story, simply continued to stare wearily at her. Natasha avoided eye contact, instead choosing to focus on what little remained of her breakfast. In an attempt to act casually, she reached for her mug to take a draw from it; however, her hands were shaking so badly that a splash of the steaming liquid sloshed from her cup and onto her sweater.

"Ow! Goddammit, that's gonna leave a huge stain!" Slamming her mug back onto the table, she pulled off her sweater—not minding the fact that she was wearing nothing but a bra underneath—and began to rub frantically at the dark circle seeping into the fabric. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she threw the piece of clothing onto the floor and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Whatever. Stark's got a million people dying to dry clean his thousand-dollar tuxes; I'll just put it onto his tab. He owes me, right? Clint?"

Natasha realized that her partner had become completely silent, and she suddenly became all too aware of the presence of his probing eyes on her person. Subconsciously, she pulled her arms tighter around herself. What the hell was his problem? He had already ogled her once this morning—wasn't that enough? Jesus Christ, you allow a man access to your personal space one night and they spend the next two weeks dilly-dallying in it.

"Clint, would you mind using your ears and listening to me for once in your sorry—"

To her surprise, though, he wasn't staring at her chest or her hips or whatever else it was that seemed to put men in a magical state of impenetrable enchantment; instead, his eyes were fixated on a single area of her lower abdomen—on the small but noticeable bump that acted as the first physical indication that there was something growing inside her.

"Natasha…" he breathed. "This is amazing! Why didn't you tell me?" Slowly, he reached his hand forward and placed it ever so gently on top of the curve; his touch was so light that Natasha could barely feel it. "I can't believe I didn't notice last night! How long have you had this?"

Natasha gulped; suddenly, she didn't feel very hungry for the rest of her pancakes. In fact, she felt downright queasy. There was something about Clint's tone of voice that she couldn't put her finger on, but whatever it was, it made her feel uncomfortable and even a little…dismayed? Distressed? She didn't know; she couldn't really think too clearly with her partner's hand pressing against the hard lump that was now a part of her body.

"I…I don't know. Not long. Listen, I'm glad we're talking again. I've got to go, though. I'll see you later."

Simultaneously striding towards the door and yanking her sweater over her head, Natasha pulled away from the warmth of Clint's body to the steel gray halls that snaked through the tower. She gave a sigh of relief as she heard the doors click shut behind her. She hadn't even looked back at Clint; she had a feeling that his expression would just about break her heart.

"Natasha! Wait!"

Natasha froze in place and looked over her shoulder just in time to practically body-slam into a frantic, power-walking Pepper. Natasha suddenly remembered that she and Tony were leaving for a two week-long business trip to Boston in order to lead a set of conferences on Stark Industries' newly developing energy awareness campaign; it was no wonder she looked more than frazzled right now.

Pepper came to a halt in front of the other red-headed woman, panting slightly and holding a freckled hand to her chest. It almost made Natasha want to smile—she had lived with top-notch secret agents, assassins, and super humans for so many years that she forgot what it was like to see someone get winded by a brisk walk down the hall.

"Natasha, please, I'm sorry—I just—I've been looking for you everywhere and—is this a good time?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not going anywhere. Is this a good time for _you_?"

"Yes, I've been putting this off for a while, and…" Pepper straightened up and reached into a black leather briefcase she had slung over her shoulder. Letting out a shuddering breath, she pulled out a manila envelope containing what appeared to be a very thick stack of papers. "Listen, Natal—Natasha—I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about everything that's happened these past few weeks."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't your fault," Natasha said, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "As far as I know, the real culprit is in some high-security prison in Tijuana right now."

Pepper blushed. "No, not that. I'm talking about…" She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "I'm talking about the scan that Tony—Tony and _I_—ordered on you. It was an invasion of privacy, and we had no right."

Natasha's breath caught in her throat. "Yeah, well…it probably wasn't you who ordered it, right?"

"No, but I didn't exactly stop him, either. Really, Natasha, I feel horrible about this whole thing. Trust me, I know what it's like to have people talking about you and…whatever else you've been doing…behind your back. I wouldn't wish it on any other woman. Not that I've ever really interacted with any other woman besides the barista at Starbucks who makes my latte. So, please, accept my apology. I really am ashamed. Really."

Natasha cracked a smile; Pepper was right: stepping into Stark Towers was kind of like a jumping into a testosterone tank. Then again, she was so used to living with men that she never really ever felt the need to talk to those of the fairer sex. "Well, I would've appreciated more of a heads-up before you sent your robot-servant to do his probing, but you probably made it easier on me in the end—I mean, I'm not really the type to bake a 'we're expecting' cake and hold a tea party or anything."

Pepper gave her a warm grin and opened her mouth to say something else, but an obnoxious beeping from inside her purse stopped her in her tracks.

"Shit, that would be the cab. Anyway, before I leave, I wanted to give this to you. I don't know what your, um, plans are for after the baby is born, but in case you were thinking about the adoption route…" Pepper shoved the heavy folder into Natasha's hands. "JARVIS and I have spent the last few weeks compiling a list of what we believe to be some very compatible potential parents. These people are the best of the best. I think. At least we've weeded out all of the crazies. I can only imagine how many reservations someone with your history must have with this sort of thing, so if you need anything—and I mean anything at all—just tell me. I can get anyone's entire life record and their father's in your hands with the push of a button. I just want you to know that you don't have to go through this alone." Pepper paused, and then, in an awkward flurry of jerky movements, she leaned forward, wrapped Natasha in a strange, fleeting hug, and stepped back with a nervous smile. "Well, I really need to go, or Tony's gonna think the whole thing is off and go back to bed. Good luck, Natasha—call me if you need anything. JARVIS has my number."

Natasha watched as Pepper scurried back down the hallway and into the elevator. "Also, I'd schedule an ultrasound if I were you. If I'm calculating right, you're about eight weeks along—I'm pretty sure that's when you're supposed to go in and, you know—check if everything is cooking right. Call me if you need any references—I'll see you in a couple of weeks!" The petite woman turned around and waved frantically, and Natasha raised her own hand in response, not putting it back down until long after the doors had closed. Sniffing at the air, she pulled the front of her sweater to her nose and grimaced; that woman's perfume was so strong that Natasha may as well have sprayed it onto her own person that morning. Still, though, that conversation had been…nice. However, it did manage to serve as another one of those all-too-constant reminders that she really needed to get on this whole baby business—the thing was growing at the rate of some science fiction parasite, it seemed. Weighing the stack of files in her hands, she peeled back the beige folder cover; the grinning face of a skinny middle-aged woman stared back at her, while the bottom half of the page was filled with enough tiny dark print to make Natasha feel even sicker than she already was. Sighing, she closed the envelope and squeezed her eyes shut.

She had a long few weeks ahead of her.

00000

_Aaand we're back! Sorry about the wait on that one, everybody. It's been a busy month (or two?) and I haven't really been in the writing mood. I hope this chapter wasn't too boring for you—I'm going to try to move it along a little quicker from here on out. If you're looking for action, though, this probably isn't the fic to read—I'm trying to focus more on Natasha's emotional struggles and less on the "Black Widow and her unborn baby have been kidnapped and now it's up to the Avengers to rescue them" ideas. Not that those can't be exciting. Anyway, I've been talking for too long. Please tell me what you think! I love when you review._

_(In addition, I'd like to give credit to whatever genius writes/updates the Black Widow tumblr ( .) It's given me a lot of helpful information on Natasha, and there are a lot of well-written articles about her and her identity as a woman superhero and all that fun stuff I love to write about!)_


	11. Chapter 11

"And Pepper actually said she _weeded out _the crazies?"

"To be fair, 'My Parents are on Tour at the Renaissance Fair' makes a pretty decent college essay topic."

"They're wearing _capes _in their thumbnails, Natasha."

"Thor wore a cape to bed for the first three months that we knew him."

"He's a god, not a middle-aged ex-accountant from Boston. What about this woman? No criminal record, but she does have a hobby of purchasing rare stuffed rodents at roadside auctions."

"At least the kid'll have the opportunity to see all those crazy backwoods America attractions that you hear about."

"You know, I don't think you're taking this very seriously."

"And I think you're taking it too seriously."

"No, you're right. It's only the parents of your future child, after all."

"Hey, I offered you the job and you turned it down. You have no right to complain about the replacements."

Bruce rolled his eyes and shoved another fistful of granola into his mouth. For three weeks now, Pepper had been slowly ridding the penthouse kitchen of all food items deemed by the Surgeon General to be "unfit for expecting mothers," leaving a cupboard full of organic vegetables, fruits and grains, as well as about seven pounds of some cardboard-tasting substance called quinoa. Conversely, Natasha had been stockpiling an assortment of more edible junk foods under a loose floorboard in her room, leaving the rest of the team to spend their mealtimes staring blankly at the array of ingredients without a clue as to what to do with them (especially Thor and Tony, whose vocabulary had never even included the words "organic" or "GMO-free.") Clint—bless his soul—tried his best to create something tasty out of everything in an attempt to get Natasha to eat more healthily, but to no avail; when it came to her, the man was complete putty.

Natasha wrinkled her nose and waved her own snack in front of his face. "You sure you don't want some chocolate chips? Cleanse the palate a bit?"

Bruce smacked her hand away. "No thanks, I think I'll live. And you should get that junk out of here before someone sees it and rats you out to Pepper."

Scoffing, Natasha sat back in her chair and spread her arms out to her sides. "We're alone here, Banner—who the hell do you think's gonna see it, the spider that's been on the ceiling for a week?"

He had to admit that she had a point—as of now, Stark Tower was completely empty (Tony was still with Pepper on his business trip, Thor had returned to Asgard to attend a peace talk with his father, and Clint and Steve had been summoned to answer a distress call from somewhere in Beijing.) Left to themselves, Natasha and Bruce spent their time roaming the premises, catching up on sleep, playing card games, or just sitting on the balcony talking about nothing in particular. Currently, though, the pair was seated at one of the tower's many coffee tables, drinking tea and pouring over the documents that Pepper had handed to Natasha before her departure. Bruce motioned towards a small bulb hanging from the ceiling. "I don't know, maybe one of Stark's thousands of security cameras. We should get back to our work."

Natasha slammed her arms back down on the table and rolled her eyes. "Work, work, work…don't you ever want to live on the wild side, Banner? We should be having parties or doing ecstasy or something. Not…this."

Bruce raised an eyebrow pointedly at Natasha. "Ecstasy?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Isn't that what the teenagers are doing these days?"

"Well, how about I call my drug dealer later and see what I can do? Meanwhile, why don't we _focus_?" Leaning over the table, he pushed a sizable stack of papers at the redhead, who sighed exaggeratedly and began to read.

They passed the next half hour or so in silence, the only audible sounds the occasional flipping of a page or the crunch of granola as Bruce steadily depleted the bag. Natasha jumped a bit when Bruce finally cleared his throat and handed her a thin sheet of paper covered in almost illegible tiny print.

"What about these people? They're Russian, and it looks like they've got a pretty stable—"

"No. No Russians."

Natasha's tone was so cold that it made Bruce glance up from his paper and move his glasses further down his nose to look over them at the woman.

"Natasha, I don't think you're really being fair, here. Just because you had a bad childhood there doesn't mean that your own baby is doomed to the same fate. It was a different time and unfortunate circumstances."

Now it was Natasha's turn to raise her eyes at Bruce, though they burned with anger instead of curiosity and her mouth was turned downward in a twisted glare.

"Unfortunate circumstances? The KGB burned my house down, took me from my foster father and _brainwashed _me into thinking I was someone that I wasn't. They experimented on me, beat away every chance at happiness that came my way. I don't think that really qualifies as '_unfortunate circumstances,' _Bruce."

Natasha sank further down into her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, her scowl deepening even further. For a moment, Bruce sat in a shocked silence.

"I'm sorry, Natasha. I didn't know. But please, do you think you could just take a look? We're down to our last ten people and we haven't even found a remotely potential candidate. Please, just consider it."

Natasha looked at Bruce with an expression he couldn't quite place, but finally, she reached across the table and gently grabbed the paper. Her eyes hovered on him for a moment until she finally tore them away to scan the document.

"Natalia and Alexei…isn't that ironic?" she said quietly with a slight smile on her lips.

"Who's Alexei?" The words had escaped from Bruce's lips before he could stop himself.

"My husband." Bruce choked a bit as he swallowed a gulp of tea; apparently, his expression was so shocked that it caused Natasha to break out into a half-amused, half-nostalgic grin.

"Yup, hard to believe, isn't it? I'm actually a widow. It'd make a cute pun if it weren't so horrible."

"So he was…I don't understand. When was this? And who is he? I mean, I've never even heard you mention his name."

She chuckled and began to scratch a fingernail at a deep cut on the table. "Nobody's ever asked, I guess. And I hesitate to discuss my personal life with people I don't know. But he was a man. A boy, I suppose—we were really young. We started our Moscow training at about the same time—he was one of the first friends I ever made. Anyways, we started sparring together, and then we started talking, and sure enough, three months later we were on our first 'date,' if you could call it that. We were doing a stealth exercise in the middle of Siberia and he asked if I'd be interested in going to some tiny place known for its reindeer stew." She blew a puff of air out from the side of her mouth, absentmindedly twirling a red curl around one of her forefingers. "God, I was so nervous. I was like a little girl going to prom for the first time. You know how long it took me to pick out an outfit? Forty-five minutes. And all I had was four standard-issue uniform shirts. Kind of embarrassing, now that I look back on it. But he was sarcastic, and he was sensitive, and he was handsome, and before I knew it we were in love and engaged and wanting to have a family together. He couldn't afford a ring with his rations, though, so he found a little red ribbon and tied it around my ring finger. That was how he proposed to me."

Natasha's smile widened slightly, and Bruce held his breath; her eyes were pointed in his direction, but from the looks of it, she was millions of miles away from where they sat. Interrupting her at this point seemed almost criminal. "We got married in Turkey—it was the only destination our superiors would give us clearance to, for whatever reason. I couldn't find a wedding dress in time, so I ended up having to wear this traditional Turkish…thing…I probably should have gotten the name of it." She let go of her curl and returned to tracing small circles on the tabletop with her fingernail. "Now that I look back on it, I don't think it was _true _love, but it certainly swept me off my feet. Besides Ivan, he was the first person I ever grew to trust."

"And Ivan is…?"

"My father. I mean, not my real father. He rescued me when my parents died; some of the witnesses say that my actual mother threw me out my apartment window into his arms as a final act of compassion before her death. I doubt that's true, but it's kind of nice to believe, sometimes. He raised me, sheltered me, trained me, made sure I was safe whenever the program sent me on an assignment." She snorted. "I don't know what he actually thought he would _do_ if I were ever in actual danger, but he tried. He was there. He was the closest thing to a dad I'll ever have. He used to call me his little tsarina—his little princess."

Her voice died down into a whisper, and Bruce awkwardly reached across the table to put a hand on her shoulder. "Can I ask what happened to Alexei?"

Any trace of a smile disappeared, and her mouth twisted into a cold, ugly grimace. "Dead. Training accident, the Red Room said."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I was angry about it for a really, _really _long time. It drove me, twisted me, took over my mind; it started out as a need to avenge his death, but somehow it became this crooked way of proving to myself that I could control my own destiny—that I could choose _who _I worked for for _how much _I worked for whenever I wanted to work. I was alone—I wasn't _owned _by any one organization. I thought that by detaching myself from everything else I could show the world that it couldn't use me as its puppet, that I wrote my own fate, so to speak. Then Clint came into the picture and I kind of came to my senses. He helped me learn that all the people in my past played an important part in who I am today, and what I know about love and life and all that jazz."

"Natasha…how old were you when you got…married?" The word still tasted strange on his tongue.

"Uhh…fifteen? Sixteen? We felt older then. And that's why I hesitate to call it real love; I don't know if it's even possible to be in love at sixteen."

Bruce just stared at her, dumbfounded. The idea of a sixteen year-old Natasha walking down the aisle, a ribbon tied to her hand and a head of red curls bouncing up and down with each step seemed too foreign to picture.

"And Ivan?"

Her expression changed again—not mournful, really, but almost defeatedly perplexed. "I…don't know. He disappeared a year or so after I got married and left a note telling me not to go looking for him. Some people said that he deferred back to Russia, but I don't know if I believe that. It was probably for the best, anyway—I wouldn't have wanted him to see me like I was in my twenties until I joined SHIELD."

The two sat in silence for a moment as Natasha stewed in her memories and Bruce mulled over the slew of information she had just thrown at him. The Red Room…marriage…an almost family…at a glance, Natasha appeared to be in her upper twenties, thirty at the most, but this woman talking seemed as if she had lived on the Earth for a hundred years.

"Well, that's the crazy life of Natasha Romanoff for you. Now is the interrogation over, or are we gonna go for another round of 20 Questions?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Bruce said quickly.

"Forgiven. Just as long as I can do the same to you one day and make you squirm."

Natasha flashed him a quick, uncharacteristically toothy grin, making Bruce blush and throw back a large swig of his tea. To his embarrassment, however, he all but missed his mouth, causing the rest of the liquid to dribble down his chin and pool onto one of the few remaining papers. This made Natasha snort and break into a fit of what could almost be called giggles.

"Just get back to work, Romanoff."

"Yes, sir. Just tell me if you need a bib; I was going to use it for Junior here but it looks like you might need it more."

"Ha-ha-ha…you're hilarious," Bruce mumbled as his blush deepened. Dropping his head to avoid making eye contact with the snickering woman across from him, he began to wipe the spreading tan droplets off the sheet. Suddenly, he frowned and delicately peeled it from the table.

"Hey, Natasha…what do you think about these people?"

Still chuckling, Natasha reached forward and snatched the item out of Bruce's hand, the mocking smile fading from her face as her eyes scanned the page in front of her.

She had to admit, these people looked perfect, beautiful even in their pixelated black and white thumbnail. Normally, she would have considered the setup nauseatingly gimmicky—the young couple was posed in front of a pair of California Redwoods, their arms wrapped chastely around each other's waists. The man's right hand rested on the shoulder of a grinning child who looked to be no more than seven years old. Natasha smiled lightly—clutched to the boy's chest was a battered action figure of none other than the Hulk, hunched over and wearing his characteristic angry grimace.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I think you just like the fact that you have a fan."

She handed the page back to Bruce, who glanced at it and smiled. "Huh. Didn't even notice that. Well, the kid's got good taste. So what do you think?"

"I don't know. They look…nice." Suddenly feeling strangely nervous, Natasha shrugged her shoulders and leaned forward to rest her chin on her hands.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere. Do you want me to read it to you?"

Natasha shrugged again and popped some chocolate chips into her mouth.

"I'll take that as a yes. Emmanuel and Claudine Mugabo…that has a nice ring to it."

"Mugabo—that's African. Where are they from?"

"According to this, they fled from Rwanda in the early nineties, right before the start of the genocide. They were barely eighteen. Emmanuel completed his undergrad at Portland and teaches high school biology in Sacramento. Claudine works with some kind of medical supply company. Combined, it's a pretty decent salary, from the looks of it. Social drinkers, non-smoking, members of the local Rotary Board…ooh, they founded a book club five years ago!"

"I'm sorry, did I miss the part when we started talking about '50's suburban housewives?"

"Believe it or not, these are things that normal people _want _in potential parents, Natasha. They're some of the most active participants in the district."

"And the kid in the picture is…?"

"Not related to them by blood. It says here that a close friend of theirs who immigrated with them died a few years after coming to America; they adopted her son and have been raising him ever since. He's at the top of his class."

"Of what? First graders? Don't tell me they have one of those little bumper stickers that says 'My Son is a Child Genius.' What makes him so smart? Can he spell out 'see Jane run' better than all the other seven year olds in the class?"

That was it. Slamming down the sheet of paper so hard that the table shook, Bruce stood from his chair and pointed a finger at the startled woman.

"Listen, Natasha. I get that this isn't your thing, and I get that you have a hard time trusting people. Believe me, you make it clear quite often. But like it or not, this annoying little process is part of the package, so either drop the attitude or I will lock you in a room for the rest of the pregnancy and _pick _the damn parents for you. So who's it gonna be—these pleasant-looking people, or the lady about fifty pages back who had a room dedicated to porcelain cat figurines? And if you give one more snarky quip, so help me God, I will remove every ounce of junk food from your room and replace it with unsalted kale chips."

Natasha's eyes were so wide that they slightly resembled small saucers, and her delicate frame had sunk back into her chair in shock. Bruce wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or drop to his knees and start begging for forgiveness; needless to say, it was not a reaction that was often procured in the life of the Black Widow.

"Well? Do you have anything to say?"

"I guess…the Mugabo people look nice…" she said in a small voice.

"So do you want to call them in for an interview?"

"Yeah…"

"There we go! See, was that so hard?"

"You don't have to be such a dick about it," Natasha mumbled.

"Watch your mouth, kid; the baby's gonna hear." Grinning, he noisily pushed his chair aside and ruffled her hair playfully. "But since you've been _such_ a good sport about this, I'll do the honor of making the call. You have anything you want to say to them?"

"Yeah—tell them to get out of it while they still can."

00000

It was rare that an Indian summer like this would last so long—in New York, no less—but to the delights of many (or to the despair of those aching for the fall season to get a move on,) the outside temperature hovered at a balmy 75⁰ Fahrenheit: about twenty-five more than the average late-October measurement. Shifting in her chair, Natasha pulled awkwardly at the front of her shirt, which, embarrassingly, kept creeping up the front of her stomach to expose her midriff. She hadn't remembered it fitting this badly two months ago.

The interview process had actually been going surprisingly quickly. Though the conversation was brief, Bruce had described them as "cheerful and polite," as well as having a "pretty cool accent." The phone call had barely lasted five minutes before the couple eagerly agreed to fly to New York, and before she knew it, Natasha found herself sitting on a high-backed chair in the drawing room waiting for the prospective parents-to-be. Bruce lounged next to her, thumbing through an old scientific magazine that he carried around to pass the time.

Groaning, she wiped her hand across her face to clear away some of the drops of perspiration that had started to form—despite the fact that the air conditioning was on, she still felt like she was wearing a fur coat. Again she pulled at her shirt, this time to peel it away from the sweat on her back. God, she hated being pregnant.

It was too quiet. And she didn't say that often.

"It's hot."

Bruce peered at her out of the corner of his eyes. "The air conditioner's on."

"My shirt is sticking to my back. It's too tight."

"No it's not."

"I look like an elephant."

Sighing, he closed his magazine and tossed it onto the coffee table. "Natasha, you look beautiful. You always do. Now take a deep breath and relax—you're just nervous. It's going to be fine."

Blushing, Natasha lowered her head and pulled her knees to her chest. "I'm not nervous, I'm just hot," she mumbled.

"Well, think of Antarctica or something, because they're going to be here at any minute."

As if on cue, the deep buzz that acted as the tower's doorbell sounded, and almost automatically Natasha looked up at Bruce with a panicked expression.

Giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, Bruce stood up from his chair and started to walk towards the door. "It'll be fine, Natasha. I'm going to go get them—wait here."

_Where else would I go? _Natasha thought, but her mouth was too dry to respond, so instead she silently nodded her head, her lips pursed.

The seconds seemed to tick by like hours, and Natasha felt the knot in her stomach growing tighter with every moment that passed. A thousand questions were running through her head—what if their application was all a lie? What if they didn't actually want a child and were just on the ride for the government stipends? What if she just flat-out hated them? Or, worst of all, what if they ended up being absolutely perfect, and by the end of the day she'd be signing that paper entrusting her future child to them for the rest of its life? She had never put that much blind faith in anyone, ever—it went against everything she stood for. Damn Bruce for not just taking the stupid kid and making all these worries go away.

The silence was suddenly broken by a murmur of voices slowly growing in volume as it made its way towards the entryway. The sweat droplets dripping down her back instantly multiplied, and her eyes darted around the room—maybe, if she acted fast enough, she just might be able to make it to that window and scale down the wall before they made it inside…

She heard a series of beeps, and the door whooshed open. Well, too late now.

"And this is the young lady you've all been waiting to meet! Mr. and Mrs. Mugabo—and David—meet Natasha Romanoff."

Hesitantly, praying to God that her shirt hadn't been completely overtaken by sweat stains, Natasha turned around to face her company. They looked exactly as they had in the picture: both husband and wife were grinning ear to ear, their fingers entwined with one another's. Hiding behind his mother's leg was the little boy who she assumed to be David, a dinosaur backpack slung over his shoulders.

"We're so happy to have this opportunity!" The man said warmly, and Natasha couldn't help but crack a smile—Bruce was right, they did have pretty cool accents. "My name's Emmanuel, and this is my wife Claudine. This little chameleon trying to hide from us is David—David, can you say 'hi' to Ms. Romanoff?"

"Hi, Ms. Romanoff," David squeaked before returning to studying the back of his mother's jeans.

Claudine chuckled and stepped forward. "Sorry, he's shy. He'll warm up to you, though—he's a sweet boy. Anyway, we would like to thank you for having us here."

With a warm smile, she held out her hand. Natasha was having a little trouble processing her thoughts, but luckily, something in the back of her mind shouted at her to reach out and shake it. With a small smile of her own, she grasped the woman's dark hand—she sincerely hoped she didn't notice how moist her own was.

"It's, uh, yeah. You're welcome. Your flight was…good?"

"Excellent. We believe that traveling is one of the best healing and learning experiences for a child; we try to have a new adventure every month. Right, David?"

David, who was now looking around the impressive room in awe, nodded quickly and flashed a grin, revealing two large gaps in the front of his mouth. Natasha was about to roll her eyes, but Bruce flashed her a warning glance—he had informed her several times to try and be "a little less 'Natasha'" when it came to judging their new-age parenting styles.

Now it was Emmanuel's turn to step forward. "So, how is the little one?" Before she could answer, he reached out and placed both palms on Natasha's stomach, nearly causing her to jump straight up and hit the ceiling. She glared at Bruce, who was stifling a snicker at her clear discomfort.

"Everything is going well, I can tell," the dark-skinned man said with a dazzling grin. "Have you felt it kick yet?"

Putting everything she had into an attempt to keep from shooting straight out from what she considered to be invasively intimate contact, Natasha cleared her throat. "Uh, no, not yet. It's still really…small."

Bruce's suppressed chuckles became even more evident; Natasha made a mental note to run his science periodicals through the paper shredder after this was all over.

"I think it's going to be a boy," Emmanuel mused to himself. "Claudine, what do you think?"

"I think you're scaring the poor girl half to death!" Claudine replied, walking over and playfully slapping his hand off of her belly. "Forgive him, child. My husband has a tendency to get too friendly."

"Yeah, it's…okay," Natasha responded lamely. An awkward silence settled over the room, the couple studying the uncomfortable woman intensely while she looked at her feet and picked at one of her finger nails. Finally, Bruce cleared his throat.

"Well, now that we've had our introductions, would you like to sit down and talk for a bit?"

The interview actually seemed to go over well, on the whole. For her part, Natasha sat in the chair with her arms crossed over her midsection, trying not to look too harsh or disinterested. She had never considered herself a particularly shy person, but for whatever reason, a wave of self-consciousness and anxiety overtook her; recognizing this, Bruce more or less took charge of the process and posed to the couple the pre-planned questions that the two had thought up together. As the talk progressed, however, Natasha found herself warming further and further to the Mugabo family; they were sweet, charming, and, to put it simply, loved life. They weren't kidding when they said that they'd been everywhere—in the fifteen years since their relocation to America, they had traveled to Italy, France, Japan, Russia, and Germany, not to mention nearly every state in the country. Combined, the family spoke almost as many languages as Natasha did—even little David seemed to have a pretty good grasp of Portuguese.

An hour passed before the cellular devices hooked to the couple's belts began to simultaneously buzz. Claudine stopped in her tracks and, glancing at the screen, rolled her eyes and turned apologetically to the pair.

"I'm sorry, we have to take these. You know how it is—you leave for one day and the whole office goes to hell in a handbasket. David can entertain you while I'm gone."

With a quick wink at her child, the woman turned her back on the other three and put a finger in her free ear, chattering away in what sounded like broken Mandarin, Emmanuel following close behind her. Natasha opened her mouth to speak when a flurry of movement below caught her eye; shifting from foot to foot was David, pulling excitedly on her pant leg.

"I made up a story! Wanna hear?"

_No, not really,_ Natasha thought to herself, but knowing full well that the Mugabo couple would not appreciate coming back to a sobbing little boy whose self-confidence had just been crushed by a socially-inept, hormonal pregnant woman, she bit her tongue and forced out a smile. David, however, continued to stare expectantly at her.

She was about to ask him what he was waiting for when Bruce chimed in for her. "We'd love to, David. It's been a long time since I've heard a good story—Miss Romanoff isn't the most creative type."

David grinned even harder while Natasha shot her friend a glare.

"Okay! Hold on, though, I've gotta go get my toys!"

Still bouncing from one foot to the other, David turned around and ran to the seating area, nearly tripping over the rug in the process.

"Careful, David!" Bruce called before turning back to Natasha. "You have to give kids direct answers—at this age, a lot of them are still in that stage where they seek approval and verbal cues."

Natasha rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to give a sarcastic retort, but David had already tottered back, now holding his dinosaur bag.

"Okay, so…okay, I forgot the story I was goingto tell you, but I'll make up a new one!"

He crouched down and pulled from his bag two banged-up Nascars, a Bugs Bunny statue, a glitter-covered wolf figurine with a small patch of fur glued to its back, and finally, the battered Hulk action figure that they had seen in the photograph. Although this time, she noticed, it was fully decked-out in makeup, including lipstick, nail polish, and what she assumed to be a skirt taken straight from a Barbie doll. Her lips curled up into a smirk; oh, if only Tony were here to see this…

Before she could turn to snigger at the slightly blushing Bruce, David once again tapped at her thigh.

"Do you want to be Bugs, the wolf, or the Hulk?"

"Uhh, how about I be Natasha?"

David's face fell, and Bruce shook his head at her while he stooped down to put a beefy hand on David's thin shoulder.

"I think Ms. Romanoff means that she wants to be our audience. What do you say I play the Hulk and you do the other two?"

He looked skeptical. "I don't know…you don't seem like the Hulk would be."

"Oh I don't, do I?" Bruce took a deep breath and let out his characteristic roar, making both the spectators jump. David looked startled for a moment, but quickly brightened and began to giggle.

"Hey, that was really good actually!" He eagerly shoved the action figure and one of the Nascars at Bruce, who was glancing at the skirt with a pained expression.

"Okay, so the wolf is hunting Bugs, so he hired Hulk to stop him, but the wolf is a boy wolf so Hulk has to dress up as a girl and be the wolf's girlfriend to get all of his secrets. Oh, and it's got a twist ending."

She had to say, the play was…entertaining, to say the least. For his part, David (acting as Bugs,) threw pretend dynamite and anvils from racing Nascars while Bruce talked in an eerily-convincing falsetto and used his action figure to plant kisses on the wolf's snout. In the end, it turned out that the wolf was so grumpy because (surprise) he was going to have babies. She supposed this was the twist ending, either because the wolf was, in fact, a _male_ wolf, or because of the simple fact that the audience wasn't supposed to know he was pregnant the whole time. Either way, she had to admit that it did throw her for a loop. The Hulk figure helped the now androgynous wolf birth a Beanie Baby cat, another baby wolf figurine, and a Sesame Street spoon, all of which he pulled from a special compartment in his backpack. The parents really weren't kidding when they told him anything was possible.

As much as Natasha tried to look interested in the boy and his shenanigans, she couldn't help but notice her attention continuing to drift to Bruce—the way his fingers curled around the figurine, the chestnut lock of hair that kept falling into his eyes and how he raked his fingers over his head to push it back, his thin lips that pulled back to reveal a set of stunningly white teeth. This, combined with the way he would lift David up into the air and let out a musical laugh sent chills down her spine and left her slightly short of breath. But more than anything, it was the way he seemed to light up around the small child; there was a kind of twinkle in his eye that she had never seen before—it was as if she had a private show to a side of him that no one had ever seen before, and it was almost enough to make her blush. When the pair finally held hands to bow to their audience of one, Natasha felt her heart sag, not so much because the story was over, but because it meant that the dull glow and casual demeanor would return to Bruce and things would go back to the way they were.

Natasha suddenly felt that the room had gone quiet; David stared anxiously at her while Bruce was urging her with his eyes. She looked back at him in confusion, and then, realizing that there was a small, almost dreamy smile on her face, she blushed and nervously clapped her hands. Bruce, either not noticing or ignoring her behavior, nodded approvingly. David grinned and took another bow.

"Well, I'm glad to see you kept yourselves busy!" The couple, hand in hand, approached the threesome, briefcases in hands. Emmanuel turned to Bruce. "You're very good with children. I've never met someone who's taken to David so well. Perhaps one day you'll be ready to take on one of your own." He flashed a blindingly white grin at Bruce, who nodded and smiled sadly in return.

"I'm afraid it's time for us to go, though. We have a meeting with an old coworker in about half an hour down on 5th. Please don't feel rushed to give us a decision right now; I understand that you will need time to think it over."

"Of course. It was great meeting you; you have a lovely family." Bruce grasped each of the couple's hands firmly, and Natasha held out her hand and did likewise.

"Yeah, it was…nice meeting you. You guys are really…great." As lame as it sounded, it was true; the young woman had taken to the pair much more than she had thought she would.

"When you reach your decision, you have our number. Good luck with the pregnancy until then." Claudine laid a hand on David's head. "Sweetie, would you like to say goodbye?"

A sudden bout of shyness had seemed to have struck the little boy again, and he had retreated once again to behind his mother's pant leg. Almost indecisively, he tottered over to Bruce, the Hulk action figure still gripped in his hand.

"Thisisforyou," he said almost too quickly for Natasha to understand. Bruce knelt down and took the toy from his hands.

"I can't take this, David. It's yours."

"No, you make a really good Hulk. I want it to be for you."

Bruce looked up at the boy's parents, who nodded in approval. Bruce smiled and reached out to shake David's hand.

"Okay, it's a deal. I'll take good care of it for you."

David grinned and hopped back to his father, who gave him a pat on the head.

"Come on, I'll show you out."

Natasha and the couple said their final goodbyes, and Bruce lead them to the exit, chattering away like he had known them for years. David gave one final wave before the door closed, and suddenly she found herself once again left alone in silence. It wasn't long before Bruce reentered the room and walked over to her, his hands folded on the back of his head.

"Well?"

"Okay, you were right. I liked them." Natasha paused. "But we're going to have to make sure those parents tell their poor son a little something about the birds and the bees."

Hope you enjoyed it! Sorry about the wait. I thought it would be interesting to write a little bit about Natasha's back story in this one. Also, kids are actually really hard to write—they either sound really simple or like robots. Thanks for reading!


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